


Black County

by NimWallace



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 80s AU, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, Bullying, Case Fic, Complete, Drug Withdrawal, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mystery, Slow Burn, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 18:24:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 58
Words: 58,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15757233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is lab partners with the captain of the rugby team, John Watson. While they both have their own private struggles, the tragic disappearance of John's younger brother prompts Sherlock into his first investigation.Between the two of them, will they find what the police are missing? And maybe something else along the way?





	1. Monday

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all, so I'm super excited to be writing this fic and I wanna make clear that the reason characters like Molly/Anderson/Donovan are left out is because if this gets good reception I'm think of turning it into a real novel and self publishing it.  
> So if this is something you would buy, let me know. If not, enjoy :)  
> This is my favorite playing of Paganini's Caprice No. 24, it's a bit slower than Heifetz plays it, which gives it a really haunting sound: https://youtu.be/7axMQQJyHco  
> If the link doesn't work, it's played by Ayako Ishikawa

It was 5am and the cold bit into his cheek like blades, making his eyes water as he took a long drag from his cigarette and stared across his porch, eyes searching the bleak, mist shrouded woods.  
He always awoke this early, because he liked to have that first taste of nicotine as he watched the sun rise in the fog from the nearby lake. It was a habit, like any of his habits, that had no real purpose except to stimulate him for a few senseless minutes before he returned to the monotony of life.  
The cigarette between his teeth was another of those habits—while his mother had been quite upset to learn of it, and yelled on about “not giving in to peer pressure” he felt no pressure whatsoever from his peers. He liked the cigarettes because they calmed him down—when his engine of a mind was racing up and down and his hands began to tremble, he'd light up and that first sweet taste of the smoke in his lungs released all that.  
He hoped his mother never found out about his. . .other habits.  
He was up approximately fifteen minutes earlier than he usually was, and this was because it was Monday, and he liked to have fifteen minutes more preparation time than usual, given that everyone was about 2.4% later for school on Monday.  
He had begged his mother to allow him to home school—to get away from all the infernal noise in Black County High—but she'd refused on the principal that his grades were impeccable and his private studies just as rich.  
Besides, he had a budding career as the solo violinist in the orchestra. Just last week he'd played Mendelssohn's Concerto in E Minor from memory, in front of five hundred people. He'd played since he was small, mostly because it made his brother jealous. But then he truly began to love it, and had become nearly an expert in ten years.  
He was working on Paganini's Caprice No. 24, the piece he truly wanted to master. It was dark and vibrant and haunting all at once, but the left handed pizzicato was doing him in.  
The frustration aside, he enjoyed having a challenge. He tended to leave things once they became too easy.  
He put the cigarette out and looked a minute longer into the woods.  
When he was a child, he used to play in those woods, picking up whatever strange plants he could find and then searching his botany encyclopedia to learn about them.  
But lately, the woods seemed to stare back at him in a way he couldn't explain.  
Sherlock Holmes had become afraid of the woods.  
  
  
John Watson, captain of the Black County High rugby team, loved school more than anything.  
School meant being away from his father. School meant being away from his house. In school, he was invincible.  
His grades were pretty good, mostly A's and B's, and being the captain of the Crusaders had it's perks. His teammates were always pretty nice to him.  
But the best part of his day was talking to his strange lab partner, Sherlock Holmes.  
Sherlock was smarter than anyone he'd ever met, in fact, the moment he'd been assigned his partner, Sherlock had looked at him and somehow not only deduced he was the captain of the team, but also that he had a younger brother, that his father was an alcoholic, and that he wanted to be a doctor.  
When John had asked how he knew that (it was a bit creepy after all) he'd replied that he knew he had a younger brother by the theater ticket in his back pocket (for a children's film called “Mechanical Island) he knew his father was an alcoholic by the way John tensed when he pointed out the brownish stain just below his left pant leg (whiskey, the clothes were hand-me-downs, obvious by the too big waist) and he knew he wanted to be a doctor because he kept a copy of _Grey's_ _Anatomy_ tucked in the far back of his locker, where his friends wouldn't see it.  
As for the captain thing, everyone knew that.  
John had been blown away, and from that day on, he'd been fascinated by Sherlock Holmes. Not only was he clever, he seemed to have an infinite knowledge of everything to do with chemistry, forensics, and the justice system.  
All that aside, his new friend seemed to lack basic knowledge anyone would know—he didn't even know the earth went around the sun, and when John had said something about his one day, (he'd been learning about Copernicus and thought he'd try to say something impressive) he'd just given him a confused glance.  
“You don't know the earth goes 'round the sun?” John had said incredulously.  
“Why should I?” Sherlock had replied. “It's all trivial. Not much use to me, really. Who did you say discovered this? Copernicus?”  
John had sighed and gone back to putting his slide under the microscope, but spent the rest of the week asking Sherlock questions to figure out exactly what he knew about.  
He ended up writing it on a crumpled piece of paper from his lab notebook _:_  
  
Sherlock Holmes Knowledge  
  
Science: Impressive  
Books: Nothing fictional  
Astronomy: Pretty Bad  
Physical: Good at boxing  
Politics: Nothing  
Law: Pretty good  
Other Stuff: Good at violin, bad at talking  
  
He'd then thrown away the note to make sure no one ever found it, then realized with paranoia that even crumpled in the trash it could still be read, retrieved it, and promptly burnt it.  
Still, as weird as this guy was, he was pretty interesting.  
So John looked forward to lab. He looked forward to Mondays.  
But this particular Monday was about to change everything for the worse.  


 


	2. The Disappearance

It was at 7:00 that James Watson would leave his house to walk to school and not return.   
John had had a pretty normal day—he had practice after school, so he got home about an hour later than usual.   
“Home” was a ramshackle house on Lake St Drive, just a few yards away from the deep black waters. The inside was cramped with stained and mismatched furniture and stacks of every newspaper they'd ever received.   
There were two windows, each covered up by hideous green curtains and boxes of God-knows-what. John shared a room with James, and tried to keep it as neat as possible, but his father's hording was out of hand and he often tossed things in their room.   
John used to fantasize about standing up to his father—tossing all the crap out of their tiny house and setting it on fire. Getting a job and taking Jamie somewhere safe. Someday.   
For now, he'd settle with making sure Jamie never had to take up against his father's fist, and doing his best raising his brother.   
“Dad?”   
No answer, and no grunt.   
John checked the bedroom, but he wasn't in there. So passed out in the pub then. He sighed in relief.   
It appeared Jamie wasn't home yet, so he got to work on his studying. But after half an hour passed by, he was beginning to worry.   
He picked up the telephone and dialed Mrs. Turner's number, maybe Jamie had gone over there and forgotten to tell him.   
“Agatha Turner,” the voice on the other end said cheerfully. John could hear the children playing in the background.   
“Erm, hi Mrs. Turner,” he said, twisting the cord around his finger. “This is John Watson, Jamie's older brother. I was just wondering if maybe he came over to play with Will.”   
“'fraid not, dearie,” Mrs. Turner said with a frown in her voice. “Is everything okay? He isn't missing is he?”   
“Er, no,” John said quickly. “Thanks though.”   
“By now dear.”   
He hung up.   
Now he was really starting to worry. Jamie was almost never home late. He didn't have very many friends for a kid his age, just Will, Mrs. Turner's grandchild, so usually he was home on the dot.   
John proceeded to call the school, and they said he had left hours ago. That set off alarm bells in his head.   
He'd heard of disappearance's in this town before. Back in the 60s there was this bizarre incident where five children had gone missing in a week.   
They'd all been found in the lake.   
It was ruled as an accidental drowning, but since then, two decades later, mysterious drownings were still frequently reported. So much so that they closed off the lake.   
John's blood went cold at the thought of his brother in those dark waters. The image of Jamie's small, pale body floating on the surface sent panic through him, and he quickly picked back up the phone and dialed a different number.   
  
There was an old saying in Black County, and no one knew quite were it came from. But it was carved in the boulder on Quaking Hill, and spray-painted nearly everywhere else.   
_The Devil runs this town.  
_ The older people of the county used this to their advantage—that is, scaring small children into obedience, and older children used it to frighten smaller ones.   
Sherlock had, of course, always scoffed at these tales, even when they were told by his older brother. After all, superstition had no basis in reality—the idea that black cats were bad omens was just as childish as saying there were ghosts in the hill top tower.   
But even so, the statement held some truth. Black County was in no way innocent.   
The phone in the parlor started to ring. He let it go to voicemail. It rang again.   
“Mycroft!” he growled in annoyance. “The phone!” He called his brother twice more, and when Mycroft didn't reply (probably stuffing his face and listening to Mozart) he reluctantly got up to answer.   
“Hello?” he huffed. “This is the Holmes Residence.”   
“Sherlock? Is that you?”   
Sherlock started. He certainly wasn't expecting the voice of his lab partner to answer.   
“Watson. Yes, it's me. Do you need notes again?”   
“No.” He could hear the panic in the rugby captain's voice. Why call your strange lab partner in a panic? “I think my brother is missing,” John said finally.   
Sherlock's eyebrows knit.   
“How long has he been gone?”   
“About two hours.”   
Sherlock chuckled.   
“It isn't bloody funny!” John growled. “I think something bad's happened to him!”   
“All right, Watson, relax,” he said, stifling his grin and resisting a joke about checking under the bed. “Is there a family member he could be with? No, you would've called them first, I assume. Have you called the school?”   
“Yes,” John said. “And would you stop calling me 'Watson?'”   
“I'll be over in ten minutes,” Sherlock said, ignoring the comment. John sighed.   
“Thanks. See you then.”   
Sherlock hung up the phone.   
  
John realized probably within five minutes of the call having ended that Sherlock didn't know his address. He picked up the phone and redialed, but no answered.   
Sure enough, in ten minutes, Sherlock arrived, pulling in in a maroon Ford Granada. Of course.   
John jogged out to meet him.   
“How did you know where I live?” he said half-accusingly.   
“Poor, damp soil on your pant leg from the northern side of town. Arrive at school 8:46 on average after walking. Lake St Drive, then. Just had to look for the yard with a quanco in it.”   
John stopped for a moment, amazed, then said,   
“Wait, you still call it a quanco?” No one else on his team would even know what he was talking about.   
Sherlock rolled his eyes.   
“Let's get to it then, shall we?”   
John explained carefully exactly what had happened and when, and Sherlock listened eagerly, his face growing more and more grave.   
The look made John nauseated.   
“Have you checked his room to see if he's taken anything unusual with him?”   
“Yeah, nothing weird,” John said.   
“Could I look?”   
“Yeah, sure.”   
They went inside, and Sherlock's eyes swept the room. John looked down flushed with embarrassment. It had been years since he'd invited anyone over—he couldn't stand the look of disgust he saw on their faces.   
But Sherlock just looked at it in a calculating manner, moving things aside, touching the dust on the lamp and finally to John and Jamie's room.   
John's things—jerseys, trophies, medical textbooks and the like—were all neatly put away on his side of the room.   
His brother was less neat, but still fairly cleanly for his age, and his things were partially scattered.   
Sherlock looked around, examined several things about the room, then said,   
“Call the police.”   
“What?” John said, now panicked. “Why? Is something wrong?”   
Sherlock took of his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket, looking concerned.   
“There's nothing out the ordinary.”   
“So? Shouldn't that be good?”   
“Just the opposite, I'm afraid.” He strode out of the room, looking in the parlor as he spoke. “You see, when a child goes missing, it is most commonly because they _chose_ to, run away, that is. But in doing so, they also tend to bring things with them, mess up their room a bit in distress, et cetera. I see no signs of that. Either an accident has happened, or your brother's been abducted.”  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the Ford Granada is a nod to Jeremy Brett's Sherlock.


	3. The Sheriff

Sheriff Bob Walton was a man of routine.   
Everyday, he smoked a cigar on his back porch and then drank a cup of strong black coffee along with his anxiety meds, then he put on his uniform, arrived at the station around 7am, and took up all the petty problems of the people of Black County.   
Usually, this entailed many disgruntled calls about fighting spouses, trespassing, and, usually _false_ accusations of thievery, primarily called in by Farmer Ed, whose mind was a bit boggled from too many years under the hot sun.   
Occasionally, he also got a call from a teenager named Sherlock Holmes, who seemed to have a lot to say about the way the station handled local crime and also made several very serious accusations himself.   
Walton liked the kid—he seemed smart. But he didn't appreciate the backlash on the way he ran his department. He thought he was doing a fine job, considering where he lived. The accusations were also quite annoying, considering he usually had no actual physical evidence—but instead, long chains of facts he apparently used to “deduce” things. “Deductions” didn't usually hold up in court. Despite this, Sherlock still called, reported, and often gave helpful tips, even if Walton didn't always follow them up.  
So when the phone rang he was not surprised to hear the voice of Sherlock Holmes on the other end.   
“Sheriff?”   
“Sherlock, if this is about Jerry Miles being the Sussex Strangler again—“   
“No,” Sherlock cut in impatiently. “Though he _is_ , and if you just look at his shoes—“ there was a muffled voice on the other end, “--right. James Watson has gone missing, I'm afraid. It's an urgent matter and if you could be at 222 Lake Street Drive as soon as possible—“  
“Is that Hamish Watson's son?”   
“Yes,” Sherlock said stiffly.   
The Sheriff sighed.   
“Look, kid, I don't think I have to tell you where to look. His Dad probably dragged him off somewhere.”   
“I don't think so. There's no sign of a struggle, and James is used to his father's habits. He would know better.”   
Kid actually sounded kinda concerned—something Walton had never heard from him before.   
“I'll be there in ten minutes,” he said. “Tell the other Watson kid not to worry, I'm sure we'll find him in no time. Probably lost track of time at the arcade.”   
But Sheriff Bob Walton knew that the Watson family would not waste money at the arcade.   
And he knew Jamie Watson was probably not coming home.   
  
“Cut and dry, kids,” Sheriff Walton sighed to Sherlock and John. “I'm sure we'll find him. I'll set up a search party tonight, okay?”   
John sighed anxiously, rubbing his forehead.   
“He's never disappeared like this before,” he said anxiously. “He wouldn't—not unless he had to.”   
“We'll do very our best,” the sheriff assured.   
Sherlock watched Walton's back as he walked away.   
“I don't like him,” he said matter-of-factly. “Runs a sloppy department, almost _never_ catches a criminal—incompetent. And look at the tremor in his left hand—he's taken one too many Prozac again, he really should be more careful with his dose, it makes him spacey.”   
“Sherlock, can you be quiet for a minute, please?” John muttered.   
“Right,” he murmured. “I'll—erm, I should be getting home, I think.”   
He glanced at his watch, though he didn't really check the time.   
“Right, of course,” John said, sounding slightly disappointed. “Right. Erm, sorry for keeping you so long. Thanks for the help.”   
Sherlock nodded in reply and got back in his Ford, mind awake with possibilities.   
  
“Why are we even looking?” Officer Baleman grunted, shining his flashlight across the blackened forest floor. “We know he's with his dad. Or was, anyway.”   
“'Cause a kid's gone missing, Jim,” Walton said. “Quit your whining and look.” He shook his head sadly. “I hope to God you're wrong. I have no doubt that Hamish Watson is capable of doing terrible things to his sons. We never did find out what really happened to his wife.”   
Baleman snorted.   
“She didn't drown, that's for damned sure. Not by mistake. I'm telling you, Sheriff, that man's got cold blood, you'd best not get in the way of it.”  
Walton scoffed, ignoring his counterpart, and scanning for any signs of the unusual.   
The forest was of a thick and voluptuous nature—the kind that swallowed you whole with towering trees and overgrown vegetation.   
People used to say they heard strange sounds out here—cackles and screams and wails. The sheriff dismissed these claims—after all, it was probably just a few kids smoking something funny or messing with the gullible town's people.   
But he still couldn't deny the feeling of these woods was strange, and if he said this whole town wasn't slightly haunted, he'd be fooling himself.

 


	4. The Injury

When John woke up the next day (or at least, got out of bed, since the night had been sleepless) his father had neglected to return home.   
This was not uncommon—sometimes he disappeared for a whole week, or even longer (John could remember thinking he was dead, wishing he was dead, hating himself for it) so he paid no mind to it at first.   
He continued his day, all the while struggling with how frustrating it was to be in school while his brother was lost somewhere—alone and possibly hurt, most certainly scared.   
And when chem came about (the only part of the day he had to look forward to) Sherlock Holmes was not there to do anything amazing, or say anything extraordinary.   
Instead, he was paired with Lucian Whitesmith—and his personality was as terrible as his name. Lucian was a small ginger kid with a bad lisp who frequently talked about all the amazing colleges that wanted him and all the opportunities he had.   
It took everything in John's willpower not to punch the kid in the mouth when he said Oxford was his “safety school”.   
What the hell is better than Oxford?   
But he restrained, rolling his eyes instead. What he wouldn't give to go to one of the schools people like Lucian Whitesmith looked down upon. It would be a miracle if he made it to community college, at this point.   
So he ignored Lucian's ramblings until the bell rang.   
He thought about calling Sherlock—maybe he was sick or something? John had never known him to miss a day of school. Then again, he didn't know much about Sherlock at all.   
Maybe he'd just been scared off after yesterday.   
Slightly annoyed and most definitely aggravated, at least John still had practice to look forward to.   
  
Sherlock did not handle frustration very well.   
After yesterday, he'd spent all night driving around town and talking to people (after all, the police could hardly be relied upon) but had still come up short.   
No one had seen or heard anything suspicious—or even seen a little boy matching Jamie's description at all.   
When he finally returned home, it was well into the early morning, and his brother was awake and waiting for him.   
“Late night, Sherlock?” he said with raised eyebrows.   
“No, Mycroft, I have _not_ been getting high in the woods,” Sherlock snapped.   
“I know,” Mycroft said. “I see no signs of you being under the influences of any such substances. But you do have a needle in your pocket and I can see that you fully intend to use it.”   
“Yes,” Sherlock grunted, removing his coat. Mycroft stood, grabbing his brother's arm.   
“You need to stop this, Sherlock,” he said in a hushed voice. “I don't want Mother or Father finding out because someone's found you in a ditch somewhere.”   
Sherlock yanked his arm back.   
“What I do is none of your concern,” he said coldly. “Goodnight, Mycroft.”   
Mycroft gave him a stern look.   
“Goodnight, Sherlock. I hope you find Watson's brother.”   
Sherlock didn't ask how Mycroft knew what he'd been doing, but tread up the staircase with the syringe in his pocket buzzing for attention.   
  
John could see it ahead—he was close.   
The ground beneath his feet was flat and dry—he was gliding across it. It was an easy run, he just had to make one more yard—  
The slam came out over nowhere—blindness, tumbling, the sky, and the smell of grass and earth.   
“You'll need proper x rays,” the nurse told him. “The shoulder's definitely fractured. I wouldn't recommend any type of physical exertion until you've had it properly looked at.”  
John looked down sullenly. Going to the hospital to get the x ray he needed would cost a fortune that his job at the local Stop Mart would not cover.   
Besides, it was clear the shoulder was broken. It was Max Greenfield who had done it—but he hadn't meant to be so severe. The kid didn't really know his own size, and once he realized how badly he'd screwed up—(probably on impact) he'd been nearly in tears.   
“I'm so sorry, mate, really, I am. I didn't mean to—I didn't.”  
“I know,”John had grunted as two of his teammates helped him up, looping his arms around their shoulders.   
John decided he'd make his own cast—somehow. For now, he'd bear the pain.   
There were worse things to worry about.   
  
When asked by his mother why Sherlock was in bed rather than attending school, Mycroft had set aside his social sciences textbook and looked into her deep grey eyes.   
For a moment, he considered telling her about the cocaine—he imagined her brow lowering and her lips pursing and her eventual pained exclamation—her concern, followed by anger.   
Sherlock had always been what their mother referred to as a “troubled” child—even though he was not nearly a child anymore.   
They did take many liberties with him—not making him go to family reunions, allowing him to spend Sunday's “boxing at the gym” (fighting behind it) and such.   
But he was not envious of his little brother—he just wished to protect him.   
“He's sick,” he said finally. “He told me to ask you not to disturb him—I've already brought him some tea.”   
“Oh, poor dear,” his mother sighed. “Does he really not want me to go up?”   
“He's a big boy, Mother,” Mycroft said wryly. “He can handle a cold by himself.”   
“All right then. Do remind him to drink some water, then.”   
  
“Still no word on the kid's dad?” Baleman grunted.   
“No word yet.” The sheriff lit a cigar, shaking his head. “I hope we don't find him in a ditch somewhere—especially if he's got his kid with him.”   
“He probably drowned him,” Deputy Randolph piped in. “Got drunk and angry.”   
Walton shook his head.   
“I hope not. Lady on the Hill told me she'd seen a little boy holding hands with a monster. Can you believe that? But she's been a loon for years.”   
“Maybe he was,” Baleman grumbled. “His dad is a monster, isn't he?”   
  


 


	5. The Dogs

John rang the sheriff the moment he got home.   
He saw his father nowhere—and while part of him was relieved, another part of him wished he would bring Jamie home.   
“Any word?” he asked, fiddling with the cord.   
“Not yet, kid,” Walton sighed. “If we don't find him by tonight, I'm releasing dogs.”   
“Dogs?” John muttered, the implications not hitting him. “To. . .for what?”   
“Cadaver dogs. I want to believe Jamie is okay, Watson, I do. And I think he's probably with your dad. But we have to take precautions—and we have to be prepared for the worst. You understand?”   
“Yeah,” John said numbly, nodding. “Yeah. All right.”   
“All right kid. We're searching the Hill tonight—that's where we'll be meeting. I've got a few more people on in the party now. I'll see you there.”   
  
Sherlock came to the Hill often.  
It was quiet, because it was rumored to be haunted.   
The locals of Black County were superstitious people, and aside from a few curious kids, no one really came here.   
Little Susie Baker had been murdered here back in the 60s—lynched from the old gray tower. The search party looked nervous, as if they feared they too may be lynched.   
Sherlock extinguished his cigarette as he watched John arrive. He had walked—it was only about two miles from his house—except he was limping.   
“What's that, Watson?” he asked as John trudged over.   
“Broken leg,” he muttered. “Bad practice.”   
“And you're not wearing a cast?”   
John shook his head, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
“How the hell do you expect to be walking around all night with an untreated broken leg?”   
“I've made a makeshift—it should do for now.”   
Just beneath his jeans, Sherlock could just see the wraps of tape and gauze he'd put on.   
He would keep an eye on him.   
“Everyone circle up!” the sheriff bellowed. Everyone shuffled into a huddle. “I know it's cold as hell and you don't like this place, but remember we are looking for a _human_ _child_. If you find anything, blow your whistle. Don't wander far from the group. Let's move.”   
  
They started on the East side, moving in groups of twos and threes, calling for Jamie, shining flashlights on bushes and other brush.  
“Why didn't you come to school today?” John asked as they moved toward the Tower, eyes scanning the landscape.   
“I was, erm—sick,” Sherlock muttered. He opened the door, and the smell of wet mold hit them.   
“Jamie!” John yelled up the spiral staircase. “Jamie!”   
His voice echoed, but nothing returned.   
“The dust on the steps is undisturbed,” Sherlock said, pointing with his flashlight. “No one is in here.”   
John sighed as they moved on.   
  


“I hope he's okay,” John murmured as they trudged through the forest. “I mean—I guess that's obvious, but I really, really hope he's okay.”   
Sherlock glanced at him, nodding. He wondered if Mycroft would be this worried is he disappeared—no, he'd probably say “I told you he's problematic, Mummy” and go back to his government studies. It was sweet how concerned John was.   
“Maybe he's with your father,” Sherlock suggested. “Abductions by strangers represent only one-hundreth of 1 percent of missing children. Drowning is far more likely.”   
John suddenly looked very pained, and Sherlock realized that was not the best thing to say.   
“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sure he'll be okay.”   
John let out a deep, uneven breath.   
“I hope so. I hope my Dad hasn't done anything to him.”   
Sherlock glanced at John's long sleeves and the bruise just beneath his neck. As a result of his deduction about John's father's alcoholism, he also assumed some abuse may be involved.   
He didn't understand it.   
  
The search went until midnight, then the regathered at the Tower.   
No one had found anything, and everyone was tired and beaten.   
They began to disperse back to their vehicles, and John sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I guess I'll see you tomorrow,” he said to Sherlock. Sherlock nodded.   
John started to limp away, but then Sherlock called out,   
“Wait, Watson.” He caught his arm. “Let me drive you, at least. You shouldn't be walking.”   
John's eyes brightened just a bit, and he nodded gratefully.   
“Yeah, that'd be great.”   
They got in the Ford, and as Sherlock started the car, he heard John murmur under his breath,  
“I don't wanna go back home.”   
His words probably weren't meant to be heard, but Sherlock decided to take the risk anyway.   
“Just come stay at my house,” he said. “We have a spare room.”   
“I don't wanna intrude like that,” John said with a blush.   
“You won't be intruding. In fact, I insist.”   
“Okay. Where do you live?”   
“Baker Street.”   
  
“Tomorrow. We have to.”   
A sigh.   
“I hate this, Randolph.”   
“So do I.”   
  
The next morning, they took out the dogs.

 


	6. The Cadaver

The Holmes house was. . .not what John expected.   
It was a crammed little apartment complex, four stories. The inside was small but charming—all mismatched furniture and plants hanging by the windowsill and a little kitchen. For some reason, John had imagined Sherlock as living in some kind of huge white mansion. It seemed more to suit his personality.   
“Sherlock, is that you, dear?” a women's voice said from the parlor.   
The women the voice belonged to (who John could only assume was Sherlock's mother) was a stout, greying lady.   
It was evident she had been pretty in her youth—she had the same pale, watery grey eyes Sherlock had, and a well structured jaw and cheekbones.   
She wore a floral blouse and kept her hair tied back in a loose bun.  
“Oh, is this that Watson boy?” she said. “Lovely to meet you, dear, I'm so sorry to hear of your brother. I hope you find him.”   
“Thank you, Mrs Holmes,” John said, stunned she knew who he was so quickly. Did Sherlock talk about him?   
“John will be staying in the guest room tonight,” Sherlock declared, shedding his coat.   
“If that's all right with you, ma'am,” John said shyly. He hadn't stayed at anyone's house since. . .not since his grandmother was alive.   
“Of course. Just give me a shout if you need anything, boys.”   
  
“This is the guest room,” Sherlock said stiffly, gesturing to a small, empty room with only a bed and window inside. “Oh, you need something to sleep in.”   
“That's all right,” John said quickly. “I'll just sleep in my clothes—I do it a lot.”   
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed, and John cursed himself on his clumsy words.   
“I mean—I don't—I—“   
“Relax, Watson,” Sherlock said coolly. “You've nothing to be ashamed of. Stay here a moment.”   
He left, then returned a minute later with a T-shirt and too long, soft-looking trousers.   
“Thank you,” John murmured.   
“Sleep well. I'll see you in the morning.”   
  
“Really, brother, you're growing so fond of him. I'm glad you have a friend.”   
“Piss off, Mycroft.”   
  
Maybe it was the stress and exhaustion, or maybe it was the relief of sleeping in a clean, empty room—whatever it was, John slept tremendously well that night.   
When he got up and got dressed the next morning, Sherlock was at his door.   
He jumped.   
“Sorry to startle you,” he said sharply. “I knew you would awake between 7 and 7:15.”   
“Oh,” John muttered. “Not creepy.”   
Sherlock heard him and flushed, embarrassed, and John instantly regretted his words. He cleared his throat.   
“Thanks for letting me stay over. I'm assuming we're going to school now?”   
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, blinking.   
“School? Your brother is missing, Watson. I assumed we'd spend the day searching!”   
“Oh—right, erm, that makes sense.”   
He was still very groggy, but it passed through his mind he'd need to call in sick or something. He wouldn't worry about it now—he was sure Sherlock had a plan.   
  
  
It occurred to Sherlock that Watson would probably want to eat (he himself never took to breakfast, he was never hungry in the morning anyway)--so he tossed an apple at him on the way out.   
“Going to school, dear?” came the voice of his mother from the kitchen.   
“Yes!”   
“Have a good day, then!”  
  
It was foggy out, and mist spread in sheets like parchment paper between the trees.   
Sherlock's Ford growled to life.   
“Where are we going to start?” John asked, taking a bite out of the apple.   
“The lake,” Sherlock said gravely.   
  
It was a dark, flat shade of green.   
Some of it was boggy, thick with vegetation. But mostly it was just a dark, flat mass stretching out from the forest.   
“I hope he's not here,” John said nervously.   
“We're not looking _in_ the lake, at least not very much,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “The police will at least do that. We're looking only the surrounding area—mainly for any evidence that your brother has been here. Small pieces of cloth, footprints, clothing, remnants of a fire, things of that nature.”   
It was a good thing that John had worn his boots, because the earth was wet and marshy here. He felt any moment he could take a wrong step and become knee deep in water.   
He walked with caution over rocks and logs—his leg ached like the devil, and each step was harder. But he kept picturing Jamie's innocent eyes—huge and brown and child-like, lost and alone out here, and he dragged on.   
He was far down the other side of the lake when he heard a twig snap nearby.   
He turned quickly, scanning the area. Then the footsteps came.   
“Jamie?” he called, hope sparking in his chest.  
“John?”   
His heart sunk.   
It wasn't Jamie, just a couple of kids from his team. He didn't know them that well—Jack Wrens and Sawyer Figmond.   
He didn't particularly like them, they acted a lot tougher than they actually were.   
“Hi,” John muttered in disappointment.   
“Sorry about your leg, mate,” Jack said, taking a long drag from the joint he was smoking.   
“Thanks,” John said. “Have either of you seen anything out here? Anything strange?” They shook their heads.   
“Just the usual sounds on the lake,” Sawyer said. “But Jack thinks he heard Screaming Susie.” Jack nodded excitedly.  
Screaming Susie was a phantom that supposedly haunted the lake, one of the children who drowned there.   
John was pretty sure whatever Jack was smoking was enough to justify that.   
“Watson! Have you found anything?”   
Sherlock came jogging his way, holding a brown paper bag and shedding latex gloves. When his eyes landed on Jack and Sawyer, he paled.   
“Oi, look who it is,” Sawyer grinned. “Queerlock Holmes.”   
Jack looked between John and Sherlock. “Is _that_ why you two are out here? I never took you for a fag, Captain.”   
John's neck heated in anger.   
“I'm helping him look for his brother,” Sherlock murmured.   
“Sure, sure,” Jack grinned. “What's in the bag, then?”   
He made a snatch at it, but Sherlock dodged.   
“None of your concern,” he snapped.   
“Lemme look!”   
Sherlock attempted to dodge again, but this time Sawyer caught hold of his arm. Jack snatched the bag away.   
“Hey!” John growled. “What the hell's wrong with you two?”   
“I think you ought to be asking yourselves that question.”   
Jack stubbed out his joint on a rock and opened the bag.   
“It's a shoe!” he guffawed. “What the hell's this for?” Before John could react, Jack tossed the shoe into the lake.   
Sherlock ran after it, but he'd thrown it too far.

“That was evidence!” he cried.   
“Evidence? What, are you playing Cops and Robbers?” Sawyer laughed hysterically.   
“Come on,” John muttered angrily. “Let's get out of here. I don't want to deal with these idiots.”   
Sherlock nodded warily, and they left together, ignoring the yelling behind them.   
  
The car ride was stagnantly silent.   
Sherlock looked pale beside him, and John wondered if Jack and Sawyer bothered him regularly.   
_“Look who it is. Queerlock Holmes.”  
_ “Those guys are idiots,” John said.   
“Hmm. Most of them are.”   
“Them?”   
“People.”   
John grinned.   
“Where are we going?”   
“Back to your house, I want to check again.”   
  
They pulled in and hopped out of the car.   
Sherlock began checking about the lawn, while John went inside to see if there were any new developments.   
He had 10 voicemails.   
Oh God.   
With shaking fingers, he picked up the phone.   
_“Hi kid, this is the Chief again. We've found a body.”_  
  


 


	7. The Cleanse

Sherlock drove the mostly empty roads with a ferocious speed.   
John gripped his seat tightly, hands shaking.   
_Jamie. Jamie. Jamie. Jamie. Oh God, Jamie.  
_ The situation wasn't registering in his mind properly—he had a short circuit somewhere, and all he could see was his brother's face.   
At some point the car stopped, and Sherlock opened the door for him, and he sat for several more seconds—or maybe hours, before getting out.   
He knew they were in a forest somewhere, but he wouldn't remember that it was _those woods_ until much later.   
Numbly, he felt Sherlock gripping his arm.   
“It's not him,” he whispered. “It's not him, Watson. The body is too big. Look.”   
He blinked, trying to get his vision to work properly again, trying to hear what Sherlock was saying. It wasn't Jamie.   
The body stretched out in front of them was an adult male, 6'2 with a mangy beard and whiskey stained clothes. It was John's father.   
He hadn't been dead long—rigor mortis had set in but had not softened, and the skin was quite pale—drained of fluids.   
He looked like a mannequin.   
John didn't realize he was speaking until he heard his own voice.   
“How'd he die?”   
“We don't know,” the Sheriff answered. “Autopsy should be back in a few weeks.”   
John nodded, throat dry.  
“Maybe you should sit down, kid.”   
Someone guided him to a rock where he sat with his head between his knees. He could hear voices—the Sheriff speculating about how he died, Sherlock disagreeing with him.   
“Maybe instead of being an asshole at our crime scene you could take care of your friend,” the deputy said.   
“Easy, Baleman.”   
“It isn't a _crime_ scene—oh, nevermind.” Sherlock indignantly walked over to him.   
“Erm,” he cleared his throat. “I am. . .sorry. That this has happened,” he said slowly. John shook his head.   
“I wanted it to happen,” he muttered. “I wanted it. Now I've got my wish.”   
He sobbed.   
  
  
“Do you have any kind of family, Watson?” Sherlock said quietly. “Anywhere I can take you?”   
John shook his head.   
He felt like there was a huge weight in the bottom of his stomach, dragging his whole body closer to the earth.   
_I wanted this._  
How terrible did he have to be to wish his own father dead?   
“Watson?”   
He jerked out of his thoughts.   
“Sorry, what?”   
“You could stay with me for a while, if you'd like.”   
John shook his head.   
“Thanks, but I've imposed enough. I'll be fine alone, besides, I want to be there if Jamie comes home.” Sherlock gave him a look which clearly suggested that Jamie would not likely be walking home anytime soon, but John ignored it.   
“You know where to find me,” Sherlock said as he pulled into Lake Street.   
“Yeah,” John muttered. “Thanks for all of your help, really.”   
Sherlock nodded.   
“I've read that singing, reading, and walking releases endorphins,” he said timidly. John smiled a bit in spite of himself.   
“Thanks, I'll try that. 'Night, Sherlock.”   
“Goodnight, Watson.” 

Sherlock decidedly had to go to school the next day, and was not surprised to find his lab partner absent.   
“I feel terrible, poor John,” he heard Mary Morstan say during lunch.   
“ _I've_ heard his father used to beat him,” Violet Smith replied. “He'd show up to practice all bruised up.”   
“Oh, hush, Violet,” Mary said indignantly.   
Sherlock didn't approve of all the gossip surrounding John's father. Word had spread, of course, that he'd been found dead.   
Of what, no one was sure. There were whispers of drunken brawls, alcohol poisoning, and even murder, but not one theory seemed correct to him.   
He sat, pondering it during recess when a loud and obnoxious voice suddenly interrupted him.   
“So, you'd done it?”   
He looked up, and was greeted with the unpleasant, rat-like face of Jack Wrens.   
“Done what?”   
“Killed him, of course.”   
Sherlock started.   
“Hamish Watson wasn't killed.”   
Jack rolled his eyes, stepping closer. He was backing him into a corner. Sherlock moved his feet, prepping for a fight.   
“Sure, sure. Only, he was beatin' up your boyfriend there, and maybe you got a bit mad, did you? Nah, you can't have, I guess. You're not man enough.” He shoved him, but Sherlock was firmly planted.   
“You're the most idiotic person I've ever met,” he said sharply.   
Jack took a swing at him, but he blocked it, grabbing his elbow.   
“Think about this, Jack,” he hissed. “Do you really want to be beaten up by the only queer in school?”   
Jack scoffed and yanked his arm back.   
“You couldn't beat me up,” he said, but there was a doubt in his voice. Sherlock rolled his eyes, decidedly walking away.   
Jack Wrens was not worth a fight.   
  
In the three days following, John Watson did not attend school.   
Sherlock was starting to get a feeling resembling concern, and he wondered what could be keeping him back.   
He thought about calling, but he hated calling. He couldn't see what people were doing with their hands and legs and faces—the things he relied upon to understand things.   
Instead, when Sunday came around, he decided to visit the Watson home.   
  
The pile of garbage outside was the first thing he noticed.   
It was a huge mound behind the house, trash bag after trash bag stacked one atop another like sugar cubes on a platter.  
There were old chairs and other pieces of furniture also in the pile, along with whatever other loose items didn't fit in the bags.   
Sherlock knocked, but when there was no answer after thirty seconds, he opened the door.   
Inside was spotless.   
All the filth was gone, the floors were swept and mopped, and even the smell had disappeared. Sherlock could safely step in without worrying about treading upon old food or broken glass.   
He spotted John coming out of the hallway in his over-sized T-shirt and jeans. His hair looked blonder—it must have been washed over and over—and even his make-shift cast looked neater.   
He had completely cleansed himself.   
“Sherlock,” he said, and Sherlock could not pickup any specific emotion in his voice.   
“Watson. I see you've cleaned the place up.”   
John nodded excitedly.   
“I want it to be clean, you know. For when he comes home.”   
Sherlock's heart sunk.   
“Right,” he said softly. “Erm, how are you doing, Watson? How are you. . . .feeling?”   
“Fine. My dad had no will, or anything, so everything goes to me and Jamie. I heard him say he didn't want a funeral, once—wanted to be cremated, so I guess that simplifies things.”   
Silence filled the space.   
“Watson, have you properly grieved yet?” Sherlock asked hopefully. “I'm not sure how long it's supposed to take, but I'd like to continue our search.”   
“Right. Of course. Yeah, um. . . .” He stammered, taking in a deep breath. “I, um. . .” He was shaking. “Dammit,” he growled, lowering his head. “Dammit. No, no.”   
He rubbed his forehead as if forming a headache.   
Sherlock stepped toward him uncertainly, eyebrows cinched.   
John sighed.   
“I—it's complicated. I feel like—I kind of. . . .” he trailed off. “I have mixed emotions.”   
“You're. . . .relieved?” Sherlock deduced. “You feel guilty about it.”   
“Yeah.”   
That was complicated—certainly more complicated than Sherlock knew how to deal with. John looked distressed.   
“Hm. Have you tried the singing?”   
John laughed.   
“I think it's a bit more complicated than that, Sherlock. What do you do when you feel trapped?”   
Sherlock thought about the needle under his bed. No, that would not do for Watson. He was too good for that.   
“I. . .fight. I box.”   
John nodded.   
“That's. . .that's good, only, I can't really be in a ring right now.” He looked down at his leg.   
“I take something up. A task.”   
He stepped forward. “We need to keep looking, Watson,” he said softly. “He could be out there—alive.”   
John nodded with difficulty.   
“Tomorrow,” he said decisively. “Tomorrow we'll look.”

 


	8. The Interview

After school, they kept apart from the search party.  
“We'll cover more ground this way,” Sherlock assured eagerly.  
He navigated the backstreets of town like a bloodhound, stopping people, asking strange and seemingly irrelevant questions, and moving on.  
John noticed for the first time how much Sherlock truly enjoyed this part.  
Was this just. . .an activity for him?  
Did he even care?  
He pushed the thought away. No, that was selfish of him to think. Sherlock had helped him a lot. He wouldn't have had him over if he didn't care.  
John shivered. The temperature was dropping with the rising of the moon, and soon the town was illuminated only by streetlamps and stars.  
If Main Street wasn't a bit run down, it was charming in its own right. In the yellow lamplight, the storefronts looked like neon warnings and old brick hiding places.  
“I don't usually come here at night,” John muttered, pulling his jacket closer to him. Sherlock gave him a sideways glance.  
“Cold, Watson? It's 7.5 degrees, not so bad. It will likely drop to 7.2 in the next half hour.”  
In truth, the jacket he was wearing was his father's, and it was so big on him that he couldn't fill it out. Between his father's height and bear belly, he'd never fully grown into his hand-me-downs.  
“It's kind of beautiful, isn't it?” Sherlock said softly.  
“What?”  
“Main Street, at night.”  
It was. With the streets mostly empty, it felt like they had the whole world to themselves. It was just them—John Watson and Sherlock Holmes and the streetlamps and the stars.  
“Yeah.”  
“Come here for a moment.”  
He followed him, curious, trusting.  
Sherlock led him to a storefront called Davie's.  
“There's no way this place is open,” John muttered.  
“His daughter runs it on Monday nights until 9, we have six minutes.”  
He opened the door.  
Inside was a small, crammed thrift store. Racks were randomly shoved together in no particular size or order, and while it was primarily clothes, there were also shelves of trinkets and oddities.  
“Sherlock!” said a women, appearing from behind a rack.  
She looked to be in about her twenties, wearing ripped jeans and T-shirt. Her hair was short and uneven and she wore hiking boots and bracelets. She jingled when she walked.  
“Irene, lovely to see you.” He shook her hand. “Can I ask you a few questions?”  
  
They sat in a back room behind the desk. Sherlock didn't bother taking notes, but he did turn on a tape and place it on the table.  
“This is about that little boy, isn't it?” Irene asked, lighting her cigarette and handing one to Sherlock. John turned the offer down and watched as Sherlock lit his.  
“Yes,” Sherlock admitted. “I just want to know if you've seen anything—talked to anyone who acted strangely, the like.”  
Irene took a moment to think. She shook her head.  
“Nothing I can think of. I've heard rumors, that's all.” Sherlock nodded.  
“From who?”  
“Just people in the shop, chatting.” A cloud blew from her lips like the breath of a dragon. “Wait, there was last Friday.”  
“What happened then?” Sherlock asked eagerly.  
“Old Farmer Ed didn't come in. He always come in on Friday to chat with my dad about his Sunday fishing trips. I thought it was a bit odd.”  
Sherlock nodded gravely as if this were very important, then paused for a moment to see if she would say more.  
“Anything else to tell us?”  
“Yeah,” she said. “Those clothes are ugly as hell.” She jerked her head at John, who had been quietly observing them. “Let me find you something that fits.”  
  
John walked out with his old clothes in a grocery bag, ordered to be “disposed of ASAP” by Irene. He was now wearing form fitting jeans, a shirt that said “REBEL” in red letters across the front, and a denim jacket lined with white wool.  
He felt more comfortable than ever before, but at the same time a bit odd.  
“You'll get used to it,” Sherlock said without looking at him. _Does he read minds?_ “You're fidgeting with your shirt hem and your gait as slowed,” he explained. Right. Obvious.  
“Do you think Ed Kranski really has anything to do with this?” John asked. Sherlock shrugged.  
“Everything is relevant. Nothing is little.”  
John nodded, glancing at him.  
He noticed, not for the first time, how pretty Sherlock actually was.  
Handsome, maybe, but pretty really suited him better—with his pale grey eyes and sharp facial structure and dark hair, skin all porcelain in the moonlight.  
_Shut up, John,_ he told himself, _don't be weird.  
_ “Something wrong?”  
John snapped out of his trance.  
“Sorry?”  
“You're staring at me. Is something wrong?”  
“Oh, er, no. Just zoned out.”  
_Snap out of it._  
“Do you really think we'll find him?” John murmured. Sherlock looked over at him. “I mean, be honest.”  
There was a long stretch of silence before Sherlock replied.  
“I think someone will find him,” he said. “If not us, someone else. It won't remain a mystery forever. How we'll find him, I don't know. Traditional methods are rather slow—I'm hoping Scotland Yard will become involved soon.”  
John nodded, not entirely understanding what he was saying. It had been days since he'd really slept, and he was growing tired. His leg ached.  
“I won't stop until this is solved, Watson,” Sherlock said quietly. “I promise you that.”  
John believed him.

 


	9. The Farmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING FOR WITHDRAWAL

School had been quiet.   
There were a few murmured apologies, uncomfortable stares, whispers.   
John mostly ignored it.   
The one person who treated him normally was Sherlock, who went about entertaining him with deductions.   
“See his shoes? He works up the road.”   
“Her pant leg? She's sleeping with him.”   
“Him over there? In the white shirt? Has two dogs, both shepherds.”   
John listened with fascination as he explained exactly how he'd come to each conclusion.   
“It's all elementary, Watson,” he said. “When you break it down.”   
“Yeah,” John said. “Yeah, it is.” He felt a bit stupid next to Sherlock.   
Sherlock frowned.   
“I won't explain anymore. You'll think I'm simple.”   
John looked over at him.   
“You? Simple?” He laughed. “I'll never think you're simple, Sherlock. You're brilliant.”   
Sherlock blushed.   
But all joy ended when they walked by the board where John had stapled a picture of Jamie, detailing his description.   
He looked at it grimly.   
“We should go to Farmer Ed, after school,” Sherlock said. “Perhaps that will shed some light on this.”   
John nodded in agreement.   
  
Ed Kranski lived on Social Street, just below the Hill on a private piece of land. Like much of the county, it was mostly fields and forest and bubolic stretches of land.   
His house was of a Southern Gothic look, and his barn much the same.   
He was retired and grew most of his own food, so people in town didn't see him very much, except at Davie's on Sundays.   
“His truck is here,” John muttered. “But the lights are turned off. Maybe he's sleeping?”   
“It's possible.”   
They walked up to the porch and rang the bell, but no one answered.   
“Hard of hearing?” John suggested uncertainly. Sherlock turned the handle.  
“It's unlocked.”   
They opened the door, and the smell of decay hit them like a tidal wave.   
Sherlock gasped at the smell, recognizing it immediately, and shielded his face with his arm.   
“Get back, Watson.”   
“God, what _is_ that? Has his dog died or something?”   
“Stay here.”   
He stepped into the house, still covering his face.   
The source of the smell was in the kitchen, and he hoped for a moment there was some mistake and some meat had been left out.   
But there was Ed Kranski, Old Farmer Ed, with a gun in his hand and a bullet in his teeth.   
  
“The police are on their way,” Sherlock informed John, stepping out over the threshold.   
“Suicide?” John asked grimly, feeling sick just from the smell. Sherlock shook his head.   
“He had a cigar in his left hand, half finished. Why wouldn't he put down his cigar before shooting himself? Why would he have the gun in the wrong hand? It's been staged.”   
John's stomach felt full of rocks.   
“Do you think this has anything to do with my brother?”   
“I don't know.” Sherlock lit a cigarette, desperate to calm his excitement and get the smell off himself.   
John sniffed, recoiling a bit. His father smoked in the house frequently, and it brought back unpleasant memories.   
Sherlock saw the reaction and finished it quickly.   
  
He told the sheriff exactly what he had told John regarding the suicide theory, but Walton shrugged.   
“Look, kid, this could be an easy case. A man's shot himself, there's nothing else to it.”   
“Could be easy?” Sherlock said angrily. “What about the truth?”   
“The truth is, you're looking for something exciting where there's nothing. Go home and get some rest.”   
“I'm looking at the facts. You only want evidence that supports your own agenda.”   
He stalked away before the sheriff could reply.   
  
“He's at crime scenes an awful lot.”  
“I don't think he's got anything to do with this—he's just curious.”   
“We've caught him with cocaine twice.”   
“He wasn't high just now. Besides, that Watson kid is with him, and he's no druggie.”   
“No? The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Walton.”   
“He's not a drunk either. Look, this is just a coincidence.”   
“If you say so, chief.”   
  
Sherlock was fuming.   
How anyone could be so careless alluded him—and all he could see now was the needle under his bed. His hands shook with anticipation. He hadn't had anything in two days.   
“Are you all right?” John asked, gripping his seat. Sherlock was driving quite fast now.   
“Fine,” he snarled. “Just—they're such— _idiots_.” He took a sharp turn down Garden Street.   
“Maybe,” John said cautiously. “But going this fast isn't going to help—“   
“No, but I need—“ He froze. He'd almost said it. _I can't let John know.  
_ “Need what?”   
“Nothing.”   
“Sherlock, slow down!” He was pushing one hundred now.   
He turned to look at John, and saw the fear in his eyes.   
He stopped the car.   
“I'm sorry,” he muttered, suddenly quite deflated. “I'm—I'm sorry.” He was trembling badly now, and his whole body felt cold.   
“God, what is it? What's wrong?” John cried. “You look sick!”   
“Must be the flue,” Sherlock said pitifully, barely able to to get out his words. Before he could stop him, John felt his forehead.   
“You're not feverish. Sherlock, what aren't you telling me? Is it because of what you saw in there?”   
It was an easy lie, a quick way out. But when he went to say yes, he found he couldn't.   
“It's withdrawal,” he choked finally.   
“Withdrawal?! From what?”   
“Cocaine.”   
John sat back in his seat, looking stunned, and they sat there for several minutes in the middle of the road on Garden Street.   
  
“I've disappointed you.”   
John was driving now, looking straight ahead stoically.   
“Yes,” he admitted, still not looking at Sherlock.   
“I'm sorry.”   
There was nothing else he could say. The symptoms were still flaring in his system, and it was hard to form proper words or thoughts. All he could feel was the pain.   
John shook his head.   
“If I drive you home are you going to take it again?”   
“Yes,” he admitted.   
“Okay. Then I won't take you there.”   
It took all his self control not to scream in protest, but John—his only friend, the only person he knew who actually _liked_ him, looked so disappointed that he couldn't.   
Instead, John drove him to Fenimore park and sat, parked there.   
Sherlock didn't look at him, desperately trying to wait out his symptoms.   
“God, this hurts,” he muttered.   
“I know,” John said, emotionless. “My dad tried to stop a few times too. He could never get through it.”   
Of course—obvious. That was why John was so angry.   
“It'll pass,” John said quietly after a few moments of silence. Despite his ire, he still hated to watch suffering.   
Sherlock nodded, and eventually, he passed out in his seat.   
  
  


 


	10. The Frequencies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is soft and clueless in this chapter because idk i wanted to

Sherlock had a vague memory of moving away from the car—the sunlight burning his eyes, but other than that, he could remember nothing.   
He was in a strange bed somewhere, and momentary panic flooded him before he realized he was at Watson's house.   
In Watson's bed, to be exact.   
He looked around the room, but no one else was in there.   
John must have helped him to bed when he passed out.   
His fever had broken, but his neck still burned with embarrassment—an emotion he had very scarcely ever felt.   
He didn't usually care what people thought of him.   
But John—well, he was a confusing specimen. For some reason, which Sherlock had yet to correctly pin point—he cared about him. He cared what he thought. And right now, he probably thought pretty bad.  
Sherlock forced himself to get out of bed. He still had a headache, but the unfamiliar smells and things around him irritated him. The sensation of the mattress was just slightly too hard, and the pillow too flat. The blanket was only a bit scratchy, but it made his skin itch something terrible.  
He tentatively stepped into the parlor, where John was sitting on the sofa listening to the radio. The song playing was something soft—with piano. Sherlock didn't know what it was (he didn't listen to the radio) but found he liked it.   
It sounded a bit haunted in the nearly empty room.   
“What song is this?” he asked softly. John didn't look up until he spoke.   
“Seriously? You don't know Queen?” he said incredulously. Sherlock shrugged.   
“I only listen to classical.”   
“Of course you do. It's called “Love of My Life.”” He shifted a bit uncomfortably, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. “Best band ever, Queen. I tried to learn one of their songs on guitar when I was twelve. Couldn't do it.” He laughed softly. “Never did pick it up properly, guitar.”   
“My mum always wanted me to play the piano, but I got bored of it and pursued violin instead.”   
“You're in the orchestra, right?”   
“Yes.”  
A heavy silence filled the room.   
“I'm sorry—that I've—made you angry,” Sherlock blurted out.   
John looked at him, blinking.   
“I wasn't angry I just—“ He sighed. The right words were on the tip of his tongue, but he forgot them all the moment he looked at Sherlock's concerned face.   
“I'm worried, I guess,” he managed finally.   
“Worried?” Sherlock said in confusion. “I assure you, this will not hinder my ability to search for your brother—“   
“No, Sherlock,” John said in exasperation. “I—I'm not worried you won't be able to help me, I'm just worried about—you, as, you know, a friend.”  
Sherlock froze momentarily, unable to find words.   
“You—I'm—“ He shook his head, trying to clear it again. “I'm your. . .friend?”   
John stared.   
“Of course,” he said.   
Sherlock looked like an awkward statue.   
“I don't know how to respond,” he said finally.   
John chuckled.   
“It's fine, you don't have to.”

“Thank you.”   
  
  
John had called Mrs Holmes and told her that he and Sherlock had decided they'd hang out and watch a movie, to which she responded, “You've convinced him to watch television? Impressive.”   
So that left Sherlock plenty of time to recover from his episode, though the withdrawal symptoms would undoubtedly return.   
John's stomach sunk thinking about how his friend would without question take the substance again. He hoped to God he could get out of the habit. . . .  
Meanwhile, he had other problems to think about. His father's autopsy report would be in tomorrow, and he didn't know how to feel about it.   
The idea of people cutting open his father's corpse made him physically sick to think about, and whatever the results were, he just hoped his father hadn't died in pain.   
The last bruises Hamish Watson's hands had inflicted upon him were fading more and more, and in a twisted kind of way, it made him sad.   
They were really all he had left of his dad, as messed up as it was.   
His emotions about his father's death remained confusing and distressing, but he tried not to think about it. He had to focus on getting Jamie back—that was all he could do.   
_Will I have to tell him dad's died?_ He wondered. _How will I support us both? Will I have to drop out of school? Will I get him back, just for someone to take him away?  
_ No, he had to focus on one thing at a time.   
“Listen, Watson, 300 kHz!” Sherlock said excitedly. He had been playing with the radio for half an hour despite his headache, tampering with frequencies and stations.   
“Bit loud, isn't it?”   
Sherlock lowered the volume, brow furrowed.   
“You are not interested in the frequencies,” he deduced.   
“Er, no, not particularly. I don't really know what any of what you're saying means.”   
Sherlock nodded, looking a bit disappointed.   
“You're thinking of something else.”   
“Yeah.”   
“You're sad.”   
“A bit.”   
Sherlock crossed his legs beneath him, folding his hands. He knew there was something he was supposed to do when someone was sad, but he couldn't remember what.  
He tried to think of what he was supposed to do, but his thoughts wandered until he was no longer remotely in that train of thought and had zoned out completely.   
“Sherlock?”   
“Hmm?”   
“You okay? You spaced out.”   
“Oh. Yes, I'm fine.”   
John sighed.   
“You hungry?”   
“Not really.”   
“When did you last eat?”  
When Sherlock started to count the week back in his head, John said, “ _Absolutely_ not” and insisted they go get some food.   
Whatever tomorrow had in store, at least they had tonight to be normal—just two friends, hanging out together, wishing for a different world.   
  


 


	11. The Autopsy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to state here that there are MORE MENTIONS OF PAST ABUSE HERE if you don't already know that from the tags, or if you continued because it's been mild, I'd like to point it out again (it's still very mild but could definitely be triggering).   
>  I'd also like to say that I am not personally an abuse victim, nor a psychologist, and all my information is second-hand and may not be 100% accurate.   
>  The same goes for the withdrawal symptoms.

Morton's Diner was open until two am, so they waited until it was late and everyone was gone and went there for chips.   
John hadn't eaten out in. . . .he couldn't remember. When he'd gone to get money for the meal, he found himself dangerously low on cash. Sherlock insisted he would pay.   
He hadn't been to work in two weeks, and his bank account showed it. His father had left them very little, and soon he would be living pound by pound.   
Hopefully, a better job would present itself soon. Maybe he could become some kind of laborer—he could hardly envision his dream of becoming a doctor could become a reality at this point.   
He could barely imagine even getting out of this town.   
  
“You've got to eat,” John said. “I know you're hungry—withdrawal will do that, you know.”   
Sherlock picked at the food distastefully.   
“I don't want to gorge myself.”   
“You need food. Eat.”   
Sherlock listened if not a bit indignantly, and soon he was eating almost ravenously. He usually came to the diner for coffee late at night—he liked how it looked all empty.   
The fluorescent lights hitting the red booths and the checkered tables, the neon sign blinking in the moonlight, the smell of leather, Hal Morton's tired voice saying, “Got to close up, mate.”   
It was comfortable.   
“You keep thinking about those bruises.”   
John looked up at him, blinking in surprise.   
“You scare me, you know that?”   
Sherlock smiled faintly. He'd seen John picking at the same spot on his shirt sleeve earlier, and his hand ghosted over it now. He knew it to be the spot where two large purple bruises were. It was a simple deduction, but he didn't want to disappoint John, so he didn't say it.   
John sighed.   
“Yeah, well, I'm guessing you know how I got them?”   
Sherlock nodded uncomfortably.   
“I just. . . .it sounds messed up, but I'm. . . .it's like I'm losing the last piece of him I have, and I don't really know how to feel about it.”   
“That's natural, I think,” Sherlock said. “Abuse victims often experience a change in psyche attaching them to their abuser, despite bad treatment.”   
John winced at the word “abuse”.   
“He wasn't. . .he didn't. . .” He swallowed. Sherlock saw his mistake, but didn't take back his words.   
“He treated you terribly, Watson,” he said softly. “There is no excuse for it.”   
“Fathers are always rough with their sons.”   
“Not like that.”   
John nodded, still not quite comprehending it.   
“I should probably get home,” he said quietly.   
“I'll drive you.”   
  
John was awake most of that night, thinking of his father's laughter and fists, his brother's smile, and his friend's watery grey eyes.  
The next morning, he got up early and made the last of the black coffee in the cupboard. He sat on the sofa with the radio on in the chilly morning light, eagerly awaiting the sheriff's call.   
It didn't come until noon, and when he heard the phone ring, he leapt up, nearly tripping over himself to get to the phone.   
“Hello?”   
“Hey, this is Sheriff Walton. The results are in.”   
  
“Cardiac arrest?” Sherlock said upon hearing the news later that day over the phone.  
“They're saying he died of fright,” John said. “He had a healthy heart. I-I didn't even know people could die of fright.”   
“Hm. It's called “Brokenheart Syndrome” actually. Cardiac arrest induced when adrenaline temporarily stuns the heart into inaction.”   
John would've found that extremely fascinating if he wasn't having so many emotions about it.   
“I—I need some time to think about it, I think. Process it.”   
“Indeed. I wish you luck.”   
He hung up the phone.  
  
John spent the afternoon lounging and pacing, wondering what could have frightened his father so badly he had a heart attack.   
Had whatever it was hurt or taken Jamie? Was it even a person, or something else? Why was he in the woods in the first place?   
Shockingly, the toxicology report showed his blood alcohol to be very low during his death, meaning he had been sober when he died.   
So what had motivated him to stumble into the forest?   
Thinking about this started to make John feel sick, so he turned on the television and attempted to distract himself.   
_Find Jamie. That's all that matters,_ he thought. _Everything else will make sense.  
_ Would it?

 


	12. The Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been on a bit of a hiatus, very busy this week, but I'm back!

John restarted work the next day, and while the work distracted him some, he was eager for his 4-7 shift to end so he join the search party, even though it started at 8:30.   
The grocery shop was quiet at night, with one or two people coming in out to buy a bag of crisps or a six pack, that's why John liked it there so much.   
The long span between customers and idle act of re-shelving and restocking gave him time to think, clear his head.   
Lately, that meant standing around with a flurry of imaginings about his father, Jamie, and Sherlock.   
He took his breaks when he started to get overwhelmed.   
That happened a lot more now, than it used to. He used to be able to take all his emotions out in a game.   
Now he could barely even take a walk.   
  
He walked out of the Shop Mart at 7 and Sherlock's Ford was already parked on the sidewalk.   
“I knew you would want to start early,” he said as John slid in. “We're going to the woods tonight.”   
  
Sherlock couldn't remember when he had first started being afraid of the unnamed forest that enclosed Black County.   
He had a vague memory of standing in a clearing when he was maybe ten or eleven years old, feeling an acute iciness in the air.  
The rest of the memory was gone.   
Even without all the knowledge of the people killed and lost in the woods, they were still undeniably eerie, and it was easy to see how someone superstitious could come to the conclusion that they were haunted.   
Sherlock, of course, didn't believe in that rubbish. He was sure John didn't either, but yet he shivered when they started out, and his eyes darted about skittishly.   
They're flashlight's swept across the forest floor like spotlights as they walked, John's gait considerably heavier on his left side.   
“What's that?”   
John was pointing to something in the distance hanging from a tree. Sherlock jogged over it, and his stomach turned.   
“It's a noose,” he said quietly, watching the rope swing in the wind like daisy in the breeze. “Someone must have come out here and. . .changed their minds.”   
John nodded, looking disturbed.   
Sherlock tore it down, stuffing it into a paper bag, and they continued.   
The temperature was dropping, and with every degree, John felt their time running out. How would they find Jamie in a few weeks, when it began to snow? Everything would be covered.   
He tried to focus on the moment at hand, staying close to Sherlock.   
“Stop,” Sherlock hissed suddenly. John did, pricking his ears.   
There were footsteps.   
“JAMIE?” he called out hopefully, trying to locate the sound.   
“Sorry boys, it's just me.”   
It was Davie's daughter, Irene Adler, with a flashlight and a cigarette, jogging toward them.   
“Irene,” Sherlock said, and John wondered once again why Sherlock never called him by his first name.   
“Hullo. I was just out for a stroll.”   
“In the woods?”  
She shrugged.   
“It's quiet, no one likes it out here.”   
That was true enough.   
“Have you seen anything?” John asked. Irene shook her head.   
“Sorry, just deer and squirrels, I'm afraid.” John nodded.   
“We'd better continue, then.”   
“Oh, can I help?” Irene asked excitedly.   
“We need all the help we can get,” Sherlock said gravely. “Just try to stay quiet.”   
Irene agreed, and they started out again.   
  
They'd covered about a mile now, and planned to go as far as they could.   
Sherlock was, strangely, visibly nervous.   
John watched as his friend became more and more alert the deeper they went, until he could no longer control the shaking in his hands.   
“Are you all right, Sherlock?” he asked. “You look terrified.”  
“I'm fine,” Sherlock snapped, but his voice was hesitant. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and Irene lit it for him.   
John wondered how long they'd known each other, if they were good friends. They seemed to anticipate each others movements like vipers, yet neither of them seemed especially affectionate, nor did they smile at each other.   
Sherlock seemed to relax as he smoked, and John could tell he was itching for something stronger as he looked frustrated when he stubbed it out.   
John suddenly felt something hit him like an icy wave.   
“Did you two feel that?” he asked in shock. It was as if his entire body had gone cold without warning, yet there was no wind to be seen.   
Irene and Sherlock both looked shaken as well.   
“Must be the wind,” Sherlock said, sounding unsure. “It's midnight, we should go back.”   
John nodded somberly, feeling guilty for being relieved.   
  
When they got back, everyone except the chief and deputy were gone.   
“Where the hell have you been?” Chief Walton demanded. “It's nearly three am!”   
“What?” Sherlock demanded. “Impossible, we've only been gone a couple of hours!”   
Walton shook his head.   
“Go home, and stay out of trouble. We'll meet again tomorrow night.”   
  
They parted with Irene on Main Street and walked back to Sherlock's car, still parked near the Hill.   
“I didn't like that,” John muttered. “It felt. . . .bad, out there.”   
Sherlock shook his head.   
“It must simply be that the stories surrounding the woods have gotten to our heads. We've become psychologically biased.”   
“Yeah, I guess.”   
It was an easy explanation—a comforting one.  
John knew it wasn't true.  
  


 


	13. The Girlfriend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL don't worry, the gay will come.   
>  Have some frustration first ;)

School the next day was painfully normal.   
Sherlock ended up with suspension for correcting a teacher (well, _yelling_ at a teacher after the teacher had refused to _make_ his correction), but at least he had time to do chem with Watson.   
John was quiet in helping him, and didn't ask any of his usual animated questions. He looked thinner, more tired than ever.   
It appeared he hadn't eaten within 42 hours and his leg was evidently aching.   
“You look regularly put out, Watson,” Sherlock commented, shedding his latex gloves and adjusting his shirt cuffs.   
“Just tired,” John muttered. “I'll see you tomorrow night, I guess.” He forced a smile. “Suspended, and all.”   
Sherlock returned the feeble grin. This charade was becoming more painful by the second, and he allowed himself to frown.   
“Yes, well. Eat something.”  
He left it at that.  
  
Mary Morstan was probably one of the smartest girls at school. She hung around Violet Smith, primarily (another very smart student, a pianist) and didn't participate in gossip.   
She was pretty, too. All blonde curls and blue eyes, feminine in her short dresses and long eyelashes.   
She was an ideal high school sweetheart, and John knew it.   
She had been chatting John up for some time now, casually flirting with him. Earlier that year, before everything had happened, they talked almost daily.   
John didn't mind it—lots of girls tried to flirt with him—being captain of the rugby team and all, but Mary was smart and didn't oversell herself.   
He'd been expecting that something might happen, before Jamie disappeared and Mary had gone out of his mind completely.   
That was, until that day.   
  
He was walking back home when Mary suddenly began to walk with him, keeping his pace.   
“Hi, Mary,” he said.   
“Hi John. Is it okay if I walk with you?”   
“Sure.”   
Mary didn't live on Lake Street Drive, she lived on Templeton Street, the connecting road. But John didn't question it.   
“I'm really very sorry about your brother,” Mary said. “I hope you find him.”   
John would've been annoyed, but her sentiment sounded entirely sincere.   
“Thanks.”   
They walked in silence for a while, and John noticed how pretty her curls looked in the autumn light. _I could make this work,_ he thought. _I could work at the Stop Mart and marry Mary Morstan and have 2.5 kids and be fine.  
_ Could he?   
  
After half a mile of idle chatter, they reached John's address.   
“I'll see you tomorrow,” Mary said, blushing slightly before pecking John on the lips, catching him entirely by surprise.   
He flushed.   
“Er, yeah, see you tomorrow.”   
He smiled and ducked inside his house.   
  
  
“Sherlock Holmes, the principle called again.”   
Mrs Holmes was waiting in the living room, both hands on her hips, tapping her foot indignantly. Sherlock cringed.   
“I'm sorry, Mum, Mrs Prescott was wrong and refused to see reason.”   
Mrs Holmes sighed. _  
_ “I'd ground you, but what good would it do? Go to your room.”   
Sherlock quickly tread up the stairs.   
  
He spent the first day of his suspension in mind-numbing boredom. He walked around town aimlessly, avoiding small talk and desperately trying to avoid getting high.   
But the weight of his uneasy mind caught up to him, and he found himself walking to the Spot where his stash was hidden.   
“So sorry, really,” he muttered to no one in particular. “I have to.”   
  
John's mind was flooded with Mary Morstan.   
He'd never had a proper girlfriend before, and the idea appealed to him. Having someone to bring to parties and watch his games, go on dates, make out with.   
It all seemed very natural and fun.   
But something nagged at him, something he couldn't put his finger on. _Come on, John,_ he thought to himself, _you've got a perfect opportunity here, don't throw it away.  
_ He would have to try it.  
  
He was going to call her and ask her out properly.   
It would be the theater, on Main Street. What could go wrong?   
After fighting with himself for several minutes, he finally dialed her number only to get the machine. He left a message and waited.   
__  
The phone rang at 2:30.  
John jumped off the couch and rushed to answer it, but it wasn't Mary's voice that greeted him.   
It was Mycroft Holmes.   
  
“Hello, John Watson.”   
“Erm, who's this?”   
“Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes. We met briefly.”   
“Oh, yes,” John said awkwardly. “I-I remember. What's up?”   
Mycroft sighed heavily.   
“I'm afraid that my brother has gone on one of his. . .erm, binges. He's in none of his usual spots. I thought you might give me insight into where he is.”   
John felt sick.   
“I-I don't know,” he admitted. “How can I help? Where are you?”   
“It doesn't matter. I think he may have gone into the forest, John. In what state I cannot imagine. I think he's looking for your brother.”

 


	14. The Addict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short and painful, peeps ;)

John was running down Templeton Street as fast as he could with his leg (not very fast) when a familiar ford pulled up next to him.   
“Get in, quickly.”   
John didn't question Mycroft Holmes, hopping into the passenger seat.   
  
“How often does this happen?”   
Myroft didn't answer for several seconds, eyes on the road with the focus of a hawk. His eyes were so much like Sherlock's—though he wasn't as attractive. He was heavier, and not as tall.  
“7% of the year.”   
John gave up doing the math quickly.   
“That's. . . . a lot.”   
“Yes, John, it is. Quite concerning.”   
John sighed.   
“You think he's near the Hill?”   
“Probably, his stash is in the tower.”   
John's stomach twisted.  
_We were just in that tower. He said to stop looking in it._  
He put the thought away and hoped to God Sherlock was okay.   
  
“Get out here. He's within a mile of this place.”   
“You aren't coming?”   
Mycroft looked at John decidedly.   
“He'd be angry, if he knew I even told you. Go find him, John. I'm going to Main Street and leaving the car here. Bring him home safely.”   
John ignored the anger that rose in his throat at Mycroft's casual manner and disregard for his brother's well being.   
He got out of the car and slammed the door.   
  
When the Tower was absent, he scowered the surrounding woods, calling Sherlock's name. “Dammit,” he muttered to himself when an half an hour had passed. “Come on. Sherlock! Sherlock!”   
The temperature was dropping and the forest felt suffocating.   
Thank Heaven, he heard a groan.   
“Sherlock?”   
His friend was curled up against a tree, holding his stomach. He was covered in sweat and shaking.   
“I took. . .a bit too much,” he murmured.   
“Sherlock, do you need the hospital?” John asked urgently, taking his pulse.   
“No no. Not that much. I vomited a lot, anyway.”   
“Sherlock, you injected it. It's in your bloodstream. I'm calling 999.”   
“No, John please.”   
He froze at the sound of his name.   
His first name, on Sherlock's lips.   
He wished the circumstances were different.   
“Sherlock. . .”   
“I swear, I'll be fine, I swear.” He convulsed and John gripped his arm. He hated this. He hated this. Hated it. Hated it. Hated it.   
“I only meant to take a little, to heighten my senses, get me going. . .but. . .I. . .got carried away. . .please.”   
John sighed.   
“You promise? You promise you're not going to. . .”   
“I promise.”   
  
John helped him to the car, feeling a confusing mix of pity and anger. This was even worse than the withdrawal he'd witnessed.   
Sherlock looked nauseated, he trembled, and occasionally groaned. John knew he should really bring him to the hospital, but he looked so pitiful he couldn't bring himself to the betrayal.   
Instead he drove him home, like Mycroft requested.   
The older Holmes brother was waiting in the driveway.   
Sherlock gave him a disgruntled look as he forced himself to stand up and get out of the car.   
“Thank you, John,” Mycroft said with a sour look at his brother. “I apologize for my brother's behavior.”   
John cleared his throat.   
“Er, no problem. I, um. . .hope you feel better, I guess,” he said to Sherlock. Sherlock looked away, a humiliated shade of red.   
“Thanks,” he muttered.   
Mycroft handed John 1.50 for the bus, and he went home.   
  
Sherlock woke up in a haze that evening.   
“Mycroft?”   
“Hmm?”   
“I want to stop.”

 


	15. The Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly hate writing straight stuff okay i know how it is just bear with me

Luckily for him, Mary wasn't deterred by his late call back. She agreed to go to the movies with him that weekend.   
When they saw each other at school the next day, John blushed and smiled at her, and she shyly smiled back, and they both went to their respectable classes with grins and moony eyes.   
When John got to chem, his mood was suddenly altered. He felt a pang in his chest when he saw Sherlock.   
His friend was already putting on gloves, his eyes seemingly hollower and dark. He was a bit paler than usual, and not as animated.   
“Hi,” John said awkwardly. Sherlock looked at him and nodded, embarrassed again.   
“You have a date. . .on. . .Sunday?” Sherlock asked.   
“Don't know how you figured that one out,” John said with a small smile. “Yeah. You know who as well?”   
“Hmm. Well, you value kindness, honesty, and intelligence. Not many people with those virtues here. It could be Violet Smith, Mary Morstan, or Lisa Carruthers. Given that you prefer blondes, that excludes Lisa. Violet is only attracted to women, so that leaves Mary.”   
John smiled.   
“Amazing.”   
Sherlock blushed, but his heart gave a sharp pang of emotion.   
“We should focus on the project.”   
“Oh, yeah. Right. What next?”   
  
  
They were going to see a movie called “Prizzi's Honor” which was about a hitman falling for a hitwoman.   
John found it a bit dull, and five minutes in, all he could feel was Mary's hand on his. She seemed eager for something (the movie? He couldn't tell) but he was just nervous.   
His father would've liked this. Him, going on a date with a girl.   
He used to call him queer.   
About halfway through the film, Mary started to get closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder.   
His heart rate spiked.   
_Come on, John, make a move.  
_ He decided to wait for the end of the movie.   
Mary teared up a bit when Charley shot Irene, leaning onto him for comfort.   
Then they got up and left, Mary wiping her tears on her sleeve.   
They climbed into the Ford Granada, which Sherlock had graciously let him borrow to spare him the humiliation of having no car (his father had taken the pickup with him, which was never found) and drove towards Templeton street.   
They got out at Mary's driveway, and John walked her to the door.   
“That was really fun, John,” Mary said. “Will you call me?”   
“Yeah,” John said, red. “I-I had a really good time, I—”   
She interrupted him with a kiss.   
John stiffened in surprise, then leaned in to it. Mary smelled like lemon and some kind of sweet perfume. Her lips were soft and dainty.   
He pulled away, face like a cherry.   
“That was, um, er—” he stammered, smiling. Mary giggled.   
“Goodnight, John.”   
  
_A date. A date. Watson is on a date.  
_ Sherlock was having trouble wrapping his head around the matter.   
What reason would Watson have for going out with Mary Morstan? Sure, she was nice, and _reasonably_ intelligent, but. . .why?   
Then he had the audacity to ask to borrow _his_ car, oh, but he had looked so earnest and embarrassed that Sherlock couldn't say no. . .  
_What's wrong with me?_  
He needed something, something strong. . . .   
No, no, no, no. He couldn't. He couldn't do that. It had only been a day, he had to stay strong. . .  
He growled in frustration.

He needed a distraction.   
He grabbed his coat and started walking.   
  
This town had been scraped top to bottom for Jamie Watson. He doubted that if he was alive, he was still here at all.  
But that didn't mean he had to stop looking.   
He walked all the way to Main Street to ask Irene Adler if she wanted to help him look, only for her to insist she finish her shift first. So he waited inside Davie's for an hour while she tended to the empty shop.   
“You seem a bit manic,” Irene noticed. “Need a fag?”   
Sherlock started, then understood what she meant.   
“Oh, yes, God yes.” He took the cigarette. This would have to suffice in place of his other habits for now.   
They started walking.   
Irene was a year older than him, she'd dropped out of school last year, but they'd remained. . .acquaintances.   
Despite her bad grades, Irene was one of the cleverest people he'd ever met, and he held her in a high regard.   
“You know, Sherlock,” she said as they walked. “I know you pretty well.”   
“Do you?”   
Irene grinned.   
“I do. And I think there's something you're hiding from me.”   
She stopped and turned to him.   
Sherlock held his breath.   
“You can tell me stuff, you know,” she said. “I know it sounds corny as shit, but I'm here, if you need me.”   
Sherlock smiled faintly.   
“I know that,” he said. “And. . .I think you know what's wrong.”   
“Yes.”  
“So you know I can't. . .talk about it.”   
“But if you need to. . .”   
“Thank you.”   
They walked on in silence.   


 


	16. The Bully

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the title wasn't evident enough, WARNING for bullying and homophobia in this chapter. There is, however, a light at the end of the tunnel in this one :)

_How many days has it been?_  
Four, It had been four days since he'd had any.   
The pain, the hot and cold, the shivering, the _hunger_ was eating him from the inside. He felt acutely human.   
He didn't like it.   
He could feel ever muscle, every organ, every _skin_ _cell_ , beating inside of him.   
He felt as though he were ill and immobile. Yet he could tell no one what was really happening.   
Mycroft drifted in and out of his room, and he was unable to tell whether he was real or not at times. When he was finally fully awake again, there was cold water at his bedside and his brother was in the corner.   
He sat up with a groan, trying not to curl in on himself. He reached for the glass with shaking hands.   
“What time is it?”   
“20:05 hours. You're lucky I've been able to keep Mother out. She's quite worried.”   
Sherlock nodded.   
“Thank you,” he said begrudgingly.   
“You'll owe me a favor. Sleep now, you'll have to go to school tomorrow.”   
  
School the next day was hell.   
He felt awful, and Watson kept sending stupid secretive smiles at Mary. It irritated him.   
“What's gotten into you today?” John asked him. Sherlock scowled.   
“Nothing, Watson. I'm perfectly fine.”   
“Hey!” He felt a sharp jab as someone shoved him into a locker, slamming his body against it. “OD yet, fag?”  
It was Jack.   
“Shove off,” John growled.   
“Gettin' defensive of your boyfriend, Captain?”   
Sherlock rubbed his aching arm.   
“Stop it,” he said. “He's just my friend.” But Jack wasn't finished antagonizing him yet.   
“Did you say something, Queerlock? Couldn't hear your little girly voice.”   
“Really mature,” John said. “Get out of here.”   
Jack opened his mouth, but the bell rang.   
He grinned.   
“Later.”   
  
“Your arm all right?”   
“What? Oh, yes.”   
His mind was no longer on the aching shoulder he'd been nursing.   
“I'm starting to hate him more than ever. I'll have to talk to the coach about getting him off the team.”   
“On what grounds?”   
John looked at him, startled, but then he thought about it. Sherlock was right. Jack played just fine. He didn't have any reason to kick him off.   
“He won't be bothering you anymore,” Sherlock leered. “I'll leave you alone, then he won't bother.”   
“Sherlock, wait.” John grabbed his sleeve as he started walking away. “What're you on about? Why've you been such an arse today?”   
Sherlock yanked his arm away.   
“You don't want me around anymore.”   
“What are you talking about?” John sounded exasperated. “Why wouldn't I want you around?”   
“Because he's right.” Sherlock's voice got hoarse, and he swallowed hard. “He's right. I'm gay, all right? I'm a faggot.”   
He didn't give John time to answer before stalking away.   
  
Sherlock didn't return any of his calls. It didn't matter, because John knew he would come to the search tonight.   
Wouldn't he?   
It didn't seem fair, really, that he dropped a bomb like that and then just walked away. Not that John didn't nessacarily suspect it anyway.   
Sherlock wasn't flamboyant, but he was somewhat feminine, and he didn't seem interested in girls at all.   
John didn't really care, but Sherlock seemed to think it could potentially end their friendship.   
He hoped it would be cleared up by that night.   
  
Sherlock smoked three cigarettes before starting out to the search site. He was desperate to calm his nerves and withdrawal symptoms.   
He realized he probably hadn't given John enough of a warning, but he suspected it wouldn't matter anyway. He would, in all likelihood, never speak to him again anyway.   
  
“All right people, I've got some news.”   
The chief silenced the chatter and got them huddled up. “This is our last search. After this, Scotland Yard will be taking over the case. I still expect everyone to work as hard as they usually would tonight.”   
_Which means he'll be sitting in his cruiser.  
_ They dispersed. 

John caught sight of Sherlock starting off in the opposite direction and immediately followed him.   
“Hey! Sherlock!”   
He didn't slow down.   
“Sherlock, wait up!”   
Sherlock turned, and John was shocked to see how red and hollow his eyes looked. _Has he been crying?_  
“What, Watson? Come to mock me?”   
“What?! No, if you'd stop being such an arse for a second and listen to me—“ John sighed, trying to calm himself. “You didn't really give me a chance to speak back there. You know, take it in and reply.”   
“What's the point?” Sherlock fumed. “I know what you're going to say. 'It's fine, Sherlock, as long as we aren't seen together.' 'It's fine, Sherlock, as long as you don't hit on me.'” He was getting emotional, losing control.  
“No,” John said sternly. “No, Sherlock, look, I'm not. . .Jesus, I'm not. . . ashamed of you. Will you calm down a moment, please?”   
Sherlock looked at his feet.  
John sighed. “I'm your friend, Sherlock. I don't care, okay? It's all right. It doesn't bother me.”   
Sherlock looked as though he might cry.   
“Thank you, John. I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—“   
“It's okay.”   
He'd said his name again.

 


	17. The First Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For fans of the original canon, you may remember "The Gloria Scott" in which Sherlock describes his first case, featuring his friend Victor Trevor. This is my spin on it.   
>  No, I have never used a microfiche and have no clue how to, lol. If anyone does know and can help me make it more accurate, I would love to hear :)

“How long have you known?”   
He should've known the questions would be coming now.   
_How long have you known? Have you ever had sex with a girl/boy? How do you know for sure?  
_ “Since I was about ten,” Sherlock said quietly. He didn't like talking about this. It felt too personal, too. . .intimate.   
John nodded, seeming genuinely curious. _Watson is nice. Watson wouldn't judge me. Why did I think he would?  
_ “It's okay,” Sherlock said finally. “I know you have more questions.”   
John glanced at him. He nodded.   
“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”   
Sherlock's stomach rolled.   
“Yes,” he said. “Once. His name—“ His voice broke. God, he hadn't talked about this in forever. “His name was Victor Trevor.”   
“Victor Trevor.” John's eyebrows knit. “I've heard that name before.”   
Sherlock looked at the ground, suddenly very interested in the first beginnings of frost on the forest floor.   
“Yes. Well, it was two years ago, he was a year older than me. You might have seen him a couple times. We kept it very low profile, you know. With how people at the school are.”   
John nodded sympathetically.   
_Come on, Sherlock. You can do this. You can tell him.  
_ “Well, one day, we were on the Hill, and. . . .someone saw us. . .” he continued, swallowing down his tears.   
“You don't have to tell me,” John said softly.   
“No, I'm fine.” He gulped again. “We didn't think anything of it and I went home fine, but Victor. . .” _Say it. You can say it._ “Victor was found dead the next day in a dumpster. Blunt force trauma. Bled to death.”   
He sprinkled in the technicalities like tiny shields. Sometimes talking about things in a different type of language can detach one from the situation.   
“Jesus,” John whispered. “That's. . .Jesus, that's terrible. I'm sorry, Sherlock.”   
“No one was ever convicted,” Sherlock growled. “A man named James Armitage did it. But they let him off.”   
He shook with anger at the memory. At the faces of the detectives he knew didn't care. At his trembling form on the witness stand. At a body beneath a sheet.   
“So that's why you know so much about this stuff,” John said quietly. “Crime, science. It was all because. . .”   
“Because _someone_ needs to do it right,” he muttered. “Someday I'll put him in jail. I will.”   
Someday.

 

The rest of the search was quiet and uneventful. As guilty as he felt about it, John was sort of relieved it was out of his hands and Scotland Yard would be taking care of it.   
He had to take some time to process what Sherlock had told him. The idea that Sherlock had someone so close to him killed was surreal, like it had happened to a stranger rather than him.   
At the same time, it seemed to explain so much of his behavior. His obsessive fixation on crime, his detachment from other people, his addictions. . .  
_He's been through a lot of shit.  
_ But then, they both had, hadn't they?   
  
The next day, John took out every photo album and scrapbook that had Jamie in it. He put the boxes on the floor and sat down, taking them out one by one.   
Some of them had his mother in them, too. Back before she died giving birth to Jamie.  
She looked happy in these photographs, with her strawberry blonde hair and large brown eyes. There were pictures of them in Templeton Park, and that time they drove all the way to a motel in Northumberland.   
John could hardly remember those days. They seemed so far away. Before his mother had died and his father drank and Jamie disappeared.   
He felt his eyes sting.   
_No. Stop that, John. We'll have that again._  
Somehow.  
  
The next day he made two phone calls.   
The first was to Mary Morstan. He called her almost every day now, and sometimes they sat on the phone for an hour just talking. They never talked about anything serious—mostly just annoying teachers and mutual friends and any other idle thing that might be of interest. John liked the change of pace from his regular life—with Mary, he didn't have to talk about the pain, or the injustice, he could just listen to her tell him about her friend Susan from Essex, who she pen palled with.   
The second person he called was the librarian, to see if they'd be open on a Sunday. He needed to do some digging.

 

He sat down at the microfiche machine with a pile of microfilm dated to the year Sherlock had said Trevor had died (1983).   
As he sorted through the titles, he found what he was looking for.   
As it turned out, Sherlock _had_ testified. There was a picture of him on the stand, fifteen and somehow years and years younger, looking small and frightened and yet trying so desperately to stand strong. His eyes gleamed with determination. He wore a too big suit.   
The headline read, “Star Witness Baffles the Courtroom.”   
The article detailed how Sherlock had evidently prepared his own strange testimony, detailing exactly how he believed Armitage had committed the crime. He used words like “evil” and “sadistic.”   
The article called him “strange” and “odd.”   
“Bloody idiots,” John muttered.   
He kept flipping through the articles, reading column after column on the murder and trial. It made him feel sick.   
But he now knew he had a new piece of Sherlock he might never have found otherwise.

 


	18. The New Face of Black County

Sherlock slammed the door on his way inside 221b.   
He was shaking, irritable, and malcontent. His mother was asleep upstairs and Mycroft was sitting on the sofa with a law book in his hands.   
“Withdrawal treating you well?” Mycroft said.   
“Shut up,” Sherlock sneered.   
“Please, Sherlock, don't bore me. I'll be leaving for Oxford in a month, then what? You remain terrible at hiding your symptoms.”   
“It isn't the withdrawal,” Sherlock hissed, though he knew it was a factor in his mood. “It's. . .”  
Mycroft understood in seconds.   
“Ah. The bruises on your arm are from that stupid boy, then? And you've told John Watson. . .”   
“Yes.” He started to deflate, almost physically feeling his mood shift from manic to sad. “He. . .took it better than I expected.”   
“Yet you are not content.” Mycroft folded his hands. “Sherlock, you hate yourself more than anyone else hates you.”   
“I wouldn't be so sure.”   
“I am.”   
Silence for a moment.   
“Be quiet, playing your violin tonight,” Mycroft said softly. “Wouldn't want to wake mother.”   
Sherlock nodded and want upstairs to poor out his soul on the strings.   
  
  


“Keep up, Moran.”   
His friend jogged after him with the flashlight, panting. The Hill was wet and cold, and his boots were getting muddy.   
“This town is shit,” Moran grumbled. “We're supposed to stay here?”   
“The locals are idiots,” he replied. “Besides, our friends at the Yard have just gotten involved. This place is about to be a lot more interesting.”   
“Whatever you say, s'long as I get paid.”   
“Of course.”   
Moriarty grinned.   
  
  


_The Devil runs this town._  
Sherlock woke with the image of the big stone on the Hill fresh in his mind like a cryptic message. He ignored it, shaking himself awake.   
He hated Sundays, they were dull. His mother dragged a reluctant Mycroft to church, leaving him nothing to entertain himself with.

He sat on the floor in his bedroom and pulled out a cardboard box underneath.   
Inside was the singular object which he had to remember Victor by.   
It was a ship in a bottle Victor had bought for him. He said he'd seen it in an antique store, and the owner had told him a fascinating story about the ship it was based on. He said the story was probably fake, but he thought Sherlock might like it anyway, what with all it's tiny intricacies and details.   
Sherlock had treasured it with child-like adoration, keeping it on a shelf with his violin trophies. The day after Victor had died, he'd thrown out everything to remind him of him. Photographs, cinema tickets, the jacket he'd left at his house.   
He'd been angry, furious.   
_Look at you,_ he'd thought when he saw the body on a cold marble slab, _you've gone and died on me. Why would you do that? It doesn't make any sense.  
_ The memory stung like fire.   
He remembered keeping his calm, staying cold and detached during the trial, speaking to the detectives.   
But the night of the funeral, he'd seen the ship on the shelf, the only thing he hadn't destroyed in his grievious rage, and suddenly it hit him like a storm. He'd curled up in on himself and sob until his brother's arms were around him and he was crying himself to sleep.   
It wasn't long after he'd tried cocaine for the first time.   
God, how long had it been since he'd looked in this box? A year? Two? It seemed so long ago, yet so fresh. Every time he was reminded, the pain washed over him like Victor had died yesterday.   
_Get over it,_ he thought. _It was two years ago, move on._  
He would.

 

John was leaving the library when he noticed something.   
On the side of Parkie's Fro-Yo, there was a new graffiti.   
As common as this was, something drew him to it.   
It was in yellow paint, and impossibly large, as if someone had done half, climbed a ladder, done the other half, and climbed down.   
It was a huge smiley face.   


He had two hours to kill before his shift.   
So he walked around town, and made a strangely unsettling discovering.   
The entire town was littered with yellow smiley faces.   
They cropped up like weeds everywhere he went, on not only the sides of buildings, but also across cars, on sidewalks, splayed across storefronts.   
“What the hell is this?” he muttered to himself. Who could possibly have done all this in a night? It must've taken an army.   
“Hey kid.”   
It was Deputy Baleman, pulling up beside him in a cruiser.   
“Hi sir,” John said respectfully.   
“You got any idea who could've done this? I've been driving around all afternoon and can't find a single lead. I usually dismiss vandalizing, but this. . .”  
John shook his head.  
“Sorry Officer, I've got no clue. I've been looking around too.”   
Baleman nodded.   
“I believe you. Carry on, then. Oh, has the Yard called you yet?”   
John shook his head.   
“Well, they will. We've officially handed the case to them, so they'll want to interview you.”   
John nodded, feeling his stomach sink at the prospect. _I'll have to talk about it again._  
“Stay out of trouble, Watson.”   
The Deputy drove off.

 


	19. The Inspector

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't posted in a few days, I've been busy writing ficlets on my blog! :) But here's a new chapter (hint, we are approaching johnlock :) :) :) :)  
>  If you want to head over to my blog and send me a prompt, I'll write you a ficlet. My url is just my name, nimwallace. Thanks for your patience!

For the next three days, there were two odd occurrences.   
One was that the mysterious smiley faces continued popping up around town, and the whole school buzzed with talk about them, speculating about what they were, what they symbolized, who put them there.   
The second was that Sherlock neglected to attend school.   
When he asked Mrs. Ashton about it, she said he'd called in sick. _Three days in a row._ Apparently he had a terrible case of the flue.   
John didn't exactly buy that.   
  
On Thursday, the fourth day which Sherlock failed to attend, a man from Scotland Yard called John's telephone around six, just as John was about to call Sherlock.   
“Hello?”   
“Hello, is this John Watson?”   
John's chest tightened. He'd been preparing for this call.   
“Yes.”   
“This is Inspector Lestrade, we'd like to ask you some questions.   
  
They met at an undisclosed location on Main Street that John didn't recognize.   
The man who went by Inspector Lestrade was silver haired, with a weaselly face and pointed nose. He had a high, airy voice and a bit of an awkward gait. He greeted John with a firm handshake and a smile. “Nice to meet you. I'm sorry about the circumstances,” Lestrade said.   
“You as well.”   
The sat down and the Inspector pulled a notepad from his trench coat and a pen from behind his ear.   
“I know how frustrating these situations can be, John, especially with local police,” he said sympathetically.   
“Chief Walton's done all he can,” John muttered. The local police weren't the best, but they had good intentions.   
“I'm sure he has. But I'm gonna need you to recount everything you can remember about the day your brother disappeared. At your own pace.”   
As quickly as he could, desperately wanting it to be over with, John recounted the tale again, starting from when he got up and saw Jamie onto the bus to when he called Chief Walton.   
“You said you called a friend over first?”   
“Yeah,” John said. “Yeah, he had a look around. Wore gloves, I think.”   
“That's a bit strange,” Lestrade muttered. “Your friend is. . .your age?”   
“Yeah,” John said, suddenly feeling defensive. “It wasn't strange. He's just really observant, that's why I called him.”   
He could tell the detective was still weirded out, but ignored it.   
“All right John,” Lestrade said finally. “Thank you for your cooperation. We will do our best to find your brother as soon as possible. Call me if you need to tell me anything you might remember later or if you have a question.”   
They shook hands and parted.   
  
The next day, John rang the doorbell of the Holmes house.   
He was surprised when, rather than Mycroft, Mrs Holmes, or Sherlock answered, a stout old woman did instead.   
“Oh, hello,” John said awkwardly. “I'm just looking for Sherlock.”   
“Oh, Sherlock's got a friend, has he?” the woman said sweetly, in a thick Irish accent. “That's lovely. He does need more friends. My name is Martha Hudson, I'm the landlady.”   
“Nice to meet you,” John said, immediately warming up to her. “I'm John Watson.”   
“Lovely to meet you, dear. Sherlock's upstairs. Poor things got a fever—he gets quite moody when he's sick, you know. I'd be cautious.”   
“Will do,” John said with a smile. “Lovely again to meet you.”   
“You too, dear.”   
  
John made his way to the Holmes's cramped apartment. He knocked, but the door was open.   
No one was inside.   
Shrugging, he decided to take matters into his own hands and jogged up the stairs to Sherlock's room.   
He knocked, and heard a thick voice say, “Come in.”   
Sherlock's room was a mess.   
There was sheet music and academic papers and books littered across the floor like breadcrumbs, and a violin in the corner untouched. There was a cedar wood candle lit on the desk, but it was impossible to smell through the thick fumes of Sherlock's cigarette.   
He was curled up on his bed with an ashtray next to him, coughing and shivering. He looked like hell.   
“Christ, what happened to you?” John asked, closing the door behind him. Sherlock looked up.   
“Oh, it's you, John,” he murmured. “Are you there?”   
“Yes. . .”   
Sherlock squinted at him, then tugged at his sleeve.   
“You are there. Hmm, I thought perhaps one of my delusions. Unless they've gotten strikingly more realistic.”   
“No, I'm here,” John said, scooting closer cautiously. “What's going on? Are you sick?”   
“Withdrawal,” Sherlock said bitterly. “Haven't had anything in a few days now.”   
John's eyes widened in surprise.   
“Oh—Sherlock, that's—that's great,” he breathed. “That's great. That you want to get better.”   
Despite everything, Sherlock blushed.   
“Yes,” he said softly. “The other day was rather. . .humiliating. So, I've stopped. Had Mycroft get rid of my needles.”

John nodded, and a feeling he couldn't describe crawled over him. Warmth. . .pride? Yet a hint of sympathy. Sherlock looked so small there, hugging his sheets to his chest. So in pain.   
“We need to get you out of here,” John said. “The cigarettes can't be helping. How many have you had?”   
Sherlock flushed.   
“A pack,” he murmured. John sighed.   
“No more. Let's go outside, get out for a bit.”  
Sherlock looked at him, throwing his bedding aside and stubbing his cigarette out. He stood thoughtfully for a moment, then moved suddenly towards John.  
“I have a better idea,” he said, stepping so close to him that he could feel the heat radiating from his body, hear his quiet breathing.   
John held his breath.   
Sherlock smiled.   
“Let's get out of here,” Sherlock whispered. “Let's just get in my car and drive and leave this stupid town.”   
“What?” John laughed. “We can't do that, it's insane!”   
“So?” Sherlock said, grinning. “So are we! No one's ever gotten anywhere in Black County, John, because no one was ever crazy enough to. Let's get out of here before we're trapped in this God-forsaken town like the rest of them.   
It was absurd, John knew it. He had to stay, help with the search, get back on the rugby field. But just at that moment, it seemed the perfect thing to do.   
“You're right,” he said. “You're right, Sherlock. You're absolutely mad, but you're right, as always. Let's do it. Let's leave.”   
Sherlock grinned.   
“I'll get my keys.”   
  


 


	20. The Escape

“Where are we going?” John asked as they darted down the stairs.  
“No clue.”   
Sherlock snatched the keys from the table and the headed outside.  
They hopped into the ford and the engine roared to life. Sherlock stepped on the gas.   
  
“Do you want me to stop at your house?” Sherlock asked as they cruised away from Baker Street. John shook his head.   
“Just drive,” he said, smiling for the first time in a while.   
  
It took about twenty minutes before the “Welcome to Black County” sign was disappearing behind them, just a phantom in the trees.   
John had never felt more alive.   
He cranked down the window and turned up the radio.   
“It's that band you like, Queen,” Sherlock said as “I Want to Break Free” began playing.   
“You listened to them?” John said in surprise.   
“No,” Sherlock said, flushing. “I simply recognized Fre—his, voice.” John grinned and turned up the song.   
  
They chose what direction to go by whichever looked more empty. They stopped at a diner with terrible food but extraordinary coffee, and a gas station that smelled like mold.   
They didn't talk much, they didn't need to. Somewhere in the back of John's mind, he knew that this wouldn't last, that they'd have to go home. He knew that he could never really leave knowing Jamie might still be there.   
But it was nice to pretend for a day anyway.   
Who knows, maybe they'd never find their way back? 

The sun gradually dipped and the air grew colder. They'd been driving on a strip of barren highway for some time now, watching the trees pass in comfortable silence.   
Sherlock glanced at John, wondering what he was thinking. Was thinking of going back home? Regretting coming? Was he thinking of Jamie? Was he thinking of Mary Morstan?   
The thought made his stomach twist.   
“All right, Watson?” he asked. John looked over, blinking dazedly.   
“Oh, fine,” he said tiredly. He pulled his jacket closer to him, holding his elbows to his chest. _Tired, doesn't want to talk,_ Sherlock thought.   
He got off onto an exit, which took them down another mostly empty road.  
Then, out of nowhere, a disturbing, guttural noise came from the car.   
Sherlock cursed himself.   
“What was that?” John asked, eyebrows cinched.   
“Don't know,” Sherlock said, pulling into a gas station as the car slowed dramatically. He got out and popped the hood, and smoke rose in huge plumes.   
He coughed and slammed it shut.   
“I'll have to call Mycroft,” he said irritably. “I don't know how to fix it.”   
“Thought you knew everything,” John said with a smirk, hopping out.   
Sherlock used the payphone to call his brother.   
“Sherlock, where've you been?” came Mycroft's harsh voice from the other end.   
“Detour,” Sherlock snapped. “I need you to come pick me up, my car's broken down.”   
“Call a tow service, Sherlock.”   
“We're in the middle of nowhere!” he exclaimed.  
“That is your own doing.”   
The phone hung up.   
Sherlock slammed it back in place and promptly went inside the rest stop, bought a pack of fags and asked for a phone book.  
The clerk luckily had one in the back and knew a local service, Sandy's Towing and Repair, which Sherlock called.  
Then he went back to John, who was sitting on the sidewalk by the car, curled into his jacket against the cold night air.   
“Called a towing service,” he told him. “There's a motel up the street we can walk to. Mycroft was not happy to receive my call.”   
John chuckled.   
“Well, your brother can't always bale you out.”   
“What's that supposed to mean?”   
John shook his head with a smile as Sherlock sat down next to him, lighting the cigarette he'd been itching for for hours.   
“Sherlock, we were never gonna leave forever, were we?” John said softly. Sherlock gave him a soft smile.   
“No, Watson, I don't think we were,” he said. “But it did feel nice, didn't it?”   
“Yeah.”   
They sat in silence for a few minutes.   
“Could've gone to London,” Sherlock said.   
“Us, in London?” John laughed. “We'd've looked like a couple of lost puppies there!”   
“Not after a while! We would learn.”   
John scooted closer to him subconsciously, looking for warmth.   
Sherlock took a drag.   
“I've secretly always wanted to go to London,” he said quietly. “Thought I might live there some day, like my father did.”   
“Your father lived in London?” John said in surprise. Sherlock nodded.   
“Before he met my mum. Settled in her home town when they got married.”   
“I've never met your dad.”   
“He's dead,” Sherlock said flatly.   
“Oh,” John said uncomfortably. “Sorry.”   
“Nothing to apologize for.”   
Another long pause.   
“How did he—“   
“Killed himself. I was seven. Don't remember him well.”   
A lie. Sherlock remembered everything.  
John nodded awkwardly.   
“We've both got family issues then, I suppose,” he said.   
“Who doesn't?” Sherlock replied. “All families have corruption, Watson. All humans do.”   
“Maybe,” John said. “Doesn't mean we have to be.”   
Sherlock shrugged.   
“I suppose not. But no one person is averse to human nature. Our own corruptness depends not on thought, but action.”   
Maybe that was a bit too deep for John, but he nodded nonetheless.   
“It's too bad,” John said. “I really did want to get out of there. But. . .I really want to find my brother.”   
“What about Mary?” Sherlock asked in a slightly harder tone. John shrugged.   
“I dunno. I-I don't know if I really like her, to be honest.”   
Sherlock cursed at his own heart for beating faster.   
“Why not?”   
“I think I like someone else.”   
His heart sunk.   
“Who?” he asked quietly.   
John looked into his pale grey eyes. Then, without warning, he grabbed him by the collar and yanked him into a kiss. Sherlock stiffened, then leaned into it, allowing himself to melt into John's touch. He smelled like leather and aftershave. His lips were surprisingly soft, his breath a low hum.   
He pulled away.   
“You, Sherlock Holmes,” he breathed.   
Sherlock said his name again.   
  
  


 


	21. The Motel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's actually a motel in my town with a slightly different name that is exactly like the one in this chapter. The sign boasts of colour tv, `reviews say it's disgusting, and it was a known mafia meeting place lol. Fun stuff.

After the car was towed away to the shop, they started for the motel with a rough idea of how to get there.   
Sherlock felt electric.   
His mind was racing with possibilities—fears, hopes, wishes. He couldn't stop smiling.   
Neither could John.   
Every time they looked at each other, they both reddened yet more. It seemed silly, at seventeen, to be acting like school girls with a crush. But love does strange things to us.   
Sherlock wanted to reach out and grab his hand as they walked, but he didn't dare on the open street. There were too many dark alleyways and not enough people watching. But, to his surprise, he felt John's hand slide into his, their fingers intertwining.   
“Don't worry so much,” John said at his look of anxiety. “We'll be okay.”   
Sherlock nodded, allowing himself to smile.   
  
After a mile's walk, during which John could focus on nothing but the shape of Sherlock's hand in his, they reached a run down motel with a huge, partially illuminated sign reading, _“Hill Top Motel, Now With Color TV!_ ”.   
“How are we going to pay for this?” John asked as they walked in. “I didn't bring any—“   
“Emergency card,” Sherlock said, holding up his wallet. “Besides, I don't think this place is 5 star exactly.”   
He wasn't wrong about that.   
When they got to their room, it was small and moldy, with peeling wall paper and a light that sort of worked. It reminded John of his house before his father's death.   
There were two queen size beds, and he uncertainly sat on one, abandoning his jacket. He turned on the telly, which was, as promised, in color.  
He didn't bother scanning through the channels, instead leaving it on for background noise.   
He didn't know what had gone through his head when he'd decided to kiss Sherlock, but sure as hell was glad he did.   
He felt like a huge, crushing weight had lifted off his chest. Mary was just a ghostly memory in the far back of his mind. He'd never felt anything like that kissing Mary.   
“Do you really like me?” Sherlock asked suddenly.   
John looked over to him in surprise.  
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, of course. I like you a lot, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock flushed, still looking skeptical. John got up and sat on his bed instead.   
“Are you sure about this, John?” Sherlock whispered. “This could make things so difficult to you, and I just want to make sure you know—“   
John answered with a kiss.   
“I'm sure,” he said. “I like you, Sherlock Holmes. I like to kiss you. Damn anyone who thinks I shouldn't.”   
Sherlock smiled.   
“I like you too. And I hate almost everyone.” John chuckled.   
“I know.”   
They were quiet for a moment.   
“So you think you're gay?” Sherlock asked finally. John shrugged.   
“I dunno,” he said. “Maybe. Does it matter?”   
“No.”   
Maybe he was, he hadn't really thought of it before. He'd lived off the assumption he'd meet a nice girl someday, before he met Sherlock. He didn't really know anything except that he found Sherlock attractive, the rest was minor.   
“Does your family know your gay?” John asked curiously. Sherlock nodded.   
“Always did. When I came home one day, practically in tears, about to tell them off in a righteous rage why I should be able to date Victor, they beat me to it. My mum told me she'd always known, and it didn't matter to her. Mycroft, of course, had been listening to my phone calls.”   
John laughed softly.   
“I'm glad. That they accepted you,” he said. “It's. . .really nice, actually. They really love you.” Sherlock nodded, unsure what to say.   
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I suppose they do.”   
John looked up at him, and he recognized the repression in his eyes. He was holding something back.   
“Sherlock, what is it?” he asked gently. “What made you believe you were unloveable, hmm?” Sherlock shook his head, closing his eyes.   
“I'm a mess, John.”   
“So is everyone.”   
He shook his head more, as if trying to banish the thoughts from it.   
“All those years, with the kids at school yelling in my years, 'faggot' 'queer' 'freak'. Last week three separate people asked me if I had AIDS.”   
“Sherlock, don't you see why they do that?” John said. “They're jealous of you! You're brilliant, and they're insecure. They don't really hate you, they just hate themselves.” He brushed a dark strand of hair from Sherlock's eyes. “Besides, you said yourself they're all just idiots anyway.”   
“You're kind, you know,” Sherlock said softly.   
“It's a quality of mine. Forget what they said. Do you think being gay is wrong?”   
“No.”   
“Then screw them.”   
Sherlock smirked.   
“I'm getting a bit tired,” he said finally.

It was early morning now, 6:00pm. John stood to go to the other bed, but Sherlock grabbed his sleeve as if afraid to let him go.   
“Would you stay here?” he asked in a slightly small voice. “I mean, if you want to. Not anything—you know, just—“   
“Sure.”   
He hadn't slept in the same bed as someone else since Jamie had disappeared, and he missed having human warmth near him.   
They didn't talk anymore, just fell asleep swiftly and deeply. 

 


	22. The Ride Home

“You really lived 'ere, boss?” Moran yawned, stretching his hands behind his head.  
“Yes,” James replied shortly. “How many personal questions must you ask?”   
“Sorry, boss. Just curious.”   
“Curiosity killed the cat,” Moriarty sneered.  
Moran was quiet for a moment after that.   
“What's your plan?” he asked.   
Moriarty smiled.  
“To terrorize this place like they did me.”   
  
When Sherlock woke, his first thought was that the previous night had been a dream.   
But within seconds, he perceived that John was beside him, breathing quietly.   
He smiled.   
When was the last time he'd been this kind of happy? This almost giddy, child-like joy he felt? Warm and content, as if the rest of the world was gone and only this one Good Thing existed.   
John stirred, blinking tiredly.   
“--'time is it?” he said groggily.   
“10pm,” Sherlock said. “We slept in. Obviously missing school.” If Sherlock skipped one more day he probably wouldn't graduate without a good explanation. He'd think of one later.  
“Good,” John yawned.  
They smiled at each other.   
“We should get moving, check out's in half in hour.”   
“'Kay.”   
  
The mile long walk seemed infinitely longer than it had last night.   
In the daylight, John could see that the town was run down but kind of cute, not unlike Black County.   
They were lucky that the problem with Sherlock's Ford was minor and could be fixed by morning. They managed to flag down a cab to take them to the shop around halfway through their walk.   
When they got to the shop, the car was healthy once more, and John stood by while Sherlock talked to the mechanic about what it would cost, how much was ensured, the like. When that was finished they finally sat down and drove away.   
  
Sherlock had luckily snatched a map from the gas station and put it in his coat pocket it. They were a staggering 200 miles away from their hometown, so they had at least three hours of driving ahead of them.   
Neither minded.   
Alone in that car they seemed worlds away from everyone else, in their own little bubble. There were things in the back of their minds—John would have to explain this to Mary somehow, and Sherlock's mum would surely pitch a fit about his little adventure.   
But none of that seemed to matter right then.   
John reached out for Sherlock's free hand.   
Sherlock shot him a tentative smile, looking deep in thought.  
“Nobody has to know, you know,” he said after a moment. “If you don't want them to, or you aren't ready—“   
“No,” John said quickly. “I don't wanna be hiding.”   
“I know, I just—“  
“Sherlock, it won't happen again.”   
Sherlock froze.  
He was understood immediately what John was talking about.   
He stared at the road.   
“It _won't_ ,” John assured him. “You like stats, logic. You know how unlikely it is, right?”   
“Yes,” Sherlock said quietly. “But probability always was stacked against me.”   
John was quiet for a minute, watching the highway pass.   
“I'm not scared, Sherlock. I told you that. It doesn't matter to me that you're a boy and I don't care if it matters to anyone else.”  
Sherlock slowly lifted his hand and pressed his lips to it.   
“Okay,” he said simply. “If you're okay, so am I.”   
  
Sherlock reluctantly drove to Lake Street upon arriving back in town, even though he desperately wanted to be near John.   
“I'd better see if the Inspector has called,” John said, hands in his pockets as he reached the door. Sherlock nodded. He had an idea he'd thought of in the car.   
“I have. . . .a concert, Sunday night,” he said, shuffling from foot to foot. “Solo. Playing Paganini. It won't be too long, you could always skip the first hour, you know. . .” he flushed. “Would. . .would you come?”   
“Sure,” John grinned. “I'll see you before then, right?”   
“Yeah.”   
“Good.”   
Quiet and blushing.   
Sherlock decided to go for it and peck John on the lips before fleeing to his car, leaving him standing there and smiling.   
  
“Sherlock Holmes, what on earth were you thinking?!” Mrs Holmes roared at her son. Sherlock picked at the hem of his shirt.   
“I'm sorry Mum, really,” he muttered. “I was going to come home, I just wanted to go out for a bit. . .”   
“Go out four hours away?! And missing school?! You could've gone to Templeton Park if you wanted to get out, and it wouldn't have cost me so much in gas and sanity!”   
So Mycroft had neglected to mention the car repair, then.   
Sherlock shrunk, giving her his best 'I'm-innocent' eyes.   
“It won't happen again, Mum, I swear.”   
His mother sighed.   
“I don't even know how to punish you, you know,” she muttered. “No. . .gym. For a week.”   
The punishment was harmless enough. She said the gym, not the fight club behind it.   
  
The school called and Mrs Holmes decided to have a meeting with the principle, in which she promptly begged for them to accept her apology and promised Sherlock would _not_ skip another day. Mrs Holmes, being the type of woman she was, got what she wanted.   
Sherlock sat in his room, plucking at his violin strings and thinking about John.   
The door opened.   
It was his brother.   
“Hello,” Mycroft said, closing the door behind him.   
“What're you doing in my room, Mycroft,” Sherlock growled. Mycroft sat down across from his brother.   
“I see the Watson boy has made a move on you, then.”  
Sherlock looked up at him.   
“That's none of your business.”  
“I'm your brother, Sherlock.”   
Sherlock put aside his violin, giving Mycroft his attention. The sooner he listened, the sooner Mycroft stopped talking and left.   
“I just want you to be careful, Sherlock,” Mycroft said gently. “One must do so with emotions.”   
“I _am_.”   
“It's a reminder, nothing more,” his brother soothed. “John seems nice, but you know how people are.” “John isn't like other people.”   
“Isn't he? Just be cautious, Sherlock.”   
Sherlock grabbed his violin and plucked a chromatic scale.   
“Are we done here?” he snapped.   
Mycroft left the room.   
  
  
  


 


	23. The Concert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the concert to be on Sunday instead because convenience.

John stared at the phone.   
He _really_ , _really_ dreaded this.   
He knew Mary would call before Monday, and he'd have to explain to her somehow that he could no longer go out with her because he'd kissed Sherlock Holmes.   
What kind of reaction would she have to _that_?   
John may not have liked her the way he liked Sherlock, but he _did_ like her. He wanted to stay friends, as cliché as it was.   
He'd never broken up with someone before, he hoped it wouldn't hurt her feelings to terribly.  
_Come on, Watson. Man up.  
_ He walked to the phone, picked it up, and put it down, starting to walk away again.  
Then it started ringing.  
He grabbed it and lifted it to his ear tentatively.   
“Hello?”   
“Hi, John.”   
It was Mary.   
John swallowed, straightening his posture.   
“Hi, Mary.”   
“Is something wrong, John? You didn't call yesterday and I worried.”   
_Here it goes.  
_ “Erm, about that,” John said. “There's um. . .well there's something I have to tell you. . .”  
A sigh on the other line.   
“It's Sherlock, isn't it?” Mary said with some bittersweet amusement in her voice.   
“How'd you know?” John asked in amazement. Was everyone around him a genius or was he just predictable?   
“Please, John, you talk about him constantly,” Mary said. “You're always with him. I knew it would happen I just. . .wish you'd been more honest about it.”   
Fair enough.   
“I'm sorry, Mary,” John said earnestly. “I am. I. . .I don't think I fully comprehended it myself, but I should've told you I wasn't really. . .committed, I guess.”   
“It's fine,” Mary said. “I mean, it was only a couple dates anyway, right? I didn't expect it to last too long.”   
That stung a bit.   
Not that he didn't deserve it.   
“Yeah,” he said softly.   
“Good luck, John, I mean it,” Mary said. “If you're going out with Sherlock Holmes, you'll need all the luck you can get.”   
John chuckled.   
“Thanks. Goodbye, Mary.”   
“Bye John.”   
  
“Any leads on the vandalism yet?” the Chief asked, his feet on his desk as he reclined in his chair and Baleman sat down across from him, a look of pure frustration on his face.   
“Nothing,” he said. “I don't get it. Neighborhood watches aren't doing anything. How is no one catching them?”   
Walton shrugged.   
“I've no bloody clue. But all we can do for now is keep an eye out.”   
Baleman shook his head.   
“I don't like this, Chief. The kid disappearing, Ed dying, Scotland Yard in town, now this. . .”   
Walton reached for the bottle in his desk drawer, promptly swallowing the pill with a cold gulp of coffee.   
“Coincidences are coincidences, Jim,” he said.   
“Yeah, but how many coincidences can there be?”   
  
Sherlock grabbed his coat, donning it and watching the windowsill as gentle snowfall flaked it.   
“Going somewhere, Sherlock?” his mother asked.   
He bit his lip, stuffing his keys in his pocket.   
“Coffee,” he said trying to get out the door.   
“With who?”   
“The Watson boy,” Mycroft interrupted in the other room. Sherlock shot him a dirty look.   
“Oooh, has something happened between you two then?” Mrs Holmes said half-teasingly.   
“Leave me alone,” Sherlock said sullenly.   
“Come on, Sherlock, we can have him over for dinner!”   
“ _Absolutely_ _not_.”   
“Have fun, dear.”   
  
“Scotland Yard call?” Sherlock asked as he sipped the black coffee he'd ordered.   
“No,” John said. “Mary did, though.”   
Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise.   
“How. . .did you tell her. . .?”   
“Yep.” John took a gulp of tea. “Wasn't even surprised. Guessed it, in fact.” Sherlock smirked.   
“Ah, Mary,” he said. “Was she angry?”   
“No. Got off easy on that one.”   
“Indeed. Oh—“   
Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a flimsy piece of gold-gilded paper.   
“The ticket, to my performance.” He handed it to John. “If—you still want to go—“  
“Of course,” John said, admiring it. The design was quite pretty, and Sherlock's name was on it, right below the orchestra's. He'd never been to any kind of concert, much less a classical one, but he enjoyed music a lot.   
He didn't recognize the songs on the list, “Paganini Violin Concerto No. 1 and Paganini Caprice No. 24.”   
“The concerto is thirty five minutes long,” Sherlock said. “You're sure you want to come?”   
John smiled.   
“I look forward to it.”   
  
Sunday came, and John had no bloody clue as to what to wear.   
He was fairly sure _jeans_ were not right. Was he supposed to wear a suit? What color? Was he supposed to bring something? Was he expected to make conversation on music?   
Sherlock had also given him a pamphlet, which explained what would be played and who would be playing it. It also said there would be no interlude, given the shortness of the evening.   
John's ticket said A4, which he assumed was his seat number.   
This might be more complicated than he thought.   
  
Sherlock dressed in the one tux he owned. He complained about how ridiculous it was, but he secretly liked the way he looked in it, no matter how uncomfortable.   
He tuned his violin, and put fresh rosin on the bow.   
He wasn't usually this nervous before a show—after all, he'd practiced for months and knew the material inside and out.   
But something about Watson watching him in the front row made him anxious.   
“You're going to do great dear,” his mother said, kissing his forehead as he headed out the door. “I'll see you there, all right?”   
“Thanks Mum.”   
Mycroft gave him a nodded and he headed out.   
  
Conductor Kosikov was not a patient man.   
He ordered people about in his strong Russian accent as Sherlock stood awkwardly at the front, his violin in his hands.   
No one else in the orchestra really liked him, even the other violinists, who could very well compete for his arrogance. He told himself no one ever likes the soloist, but he knew there were other reasons.   
He watched the amphitheater fill up, eagerly looking for John in the sea of people entering. He had ten minutes before the show began.   
Just as the theater quieted, he spotted John getting to his seat.   
He made eye contact and John smiled encouragingly, mouthing, “You'll do great.”   
Sherlock nodded, and the orchestra began.   
He had to wait a painful four minutes before the Allegro Maestoso ended and he came in. He finally lifted his instrument to his shoulder and began.   
The notes flowed from the violin as natural as could be. He could barely even feel himself playing, he could only hear the music in his ears as his fingers glided across the neck.   
The concerto was not what he was worried about—he'd played it plenty of times before. What he was really eager for was the solo caprice.   
Nonetheless, he played with passion, even when the audience dozed. John just sat and watched in amazement, as if he'd never seen anything like it before.   
Thirty five minutes flew by, and he ended the Allegro Spirituoso with a low note and flourish of his bow.   
He bowed as the audience applauded.   
Conductor Kosikov reached for a microphone for the next announcement.  
“Now ve 'ave Sherlock Holmes, playing Paganini's Caprice No. 24.”   
The crowd clapped as Sherlock took a deep breath and stepped forward. He looked down at John, who gave him a thumbs up.  
The room silenced. It was just him and his violin.   
He closed his eyes and began.   
He started on G, and the notes flew like mockingbirds from the strings. He was making the violin sing, sing for him and the crowd.   
He played it slower than Heifetz, but still swiftly, letting the haunting melody fill the auditorium. Paganini was all about skill and technicality, getting every movement just correct, knowing the instrument better than your own hands.  
A piece of music was a fingerprint, and the musician a scientist.   
As short as the piece was, it seemed to tell an entire story—the impossibly high climb, the chords, the pizzicato.   
He was alone in his room, playing his instrument like he was dancing with it.   
He breathed each note until finally—the last double stop was complete.   
Silence for a moment.   
Then an eruption of applause.   
He was finished. 

 


	24. The Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what I give you fluff it means angst is coming, right?

When the applause end, and he show is over, Sherlock finally _breathes_ , and he puts his violin in its case and sneaks out through the back to avoid the half-arsed congratulations of his peers.   
But John knows where to find him as if he's a bloodhound, and manages to find the backdoor before Sherlock's cigarette is even lit.  
John was wearing a black suit, well-fitted for him.   
“That was incredible, Sherlock!” He beamed.   
Sherlock smiled, a blush creeping over his cheeks.   
“Thank you, Watson. Good of you to come.”   
“I'm sorry I was a bit late, I had to ask Irene to help me find something to wear.”   
“You look good.”  
“Thanks.”   
John blushed.   
“I brought you something.” He held out a rose, tied with a deep green ribbon. “I know it's not much—“ _But I didn't have enough for the bouquet—_  
“It's lovely, Watson, thank you,” Sherlock said, taking it in his long, lithe fingers and twisting it between them. “Let me give you a ride home. If I don't get out of here soon, my Mum will find me.”   
  
When they reached Lake Street, it was nearly 10:00pm. The lake stretched ahead, dark and ominous in the dim porch lighting.   
“Come inside?” John asked.   
“Sure.”   
They went inside and John made tea, the cheap green one he bought at the Stop Mart. It didn't taste like much but it warmed him up.   
They sat on the sofa and drank it quietly, listening to the radio. The rose John had given him was tucked in Sherlock's jacket.   
“Sherlock?”   
“Hmm, John?”   
“You—you could stay, if you want, stay over. We don't have to—I could sleep on the sofa or—“   
His voice cracked.   
Sherlock looked at him with his deep, observing eyes, brow furrowed in concentration.   
“Okay,” he said. “Is something wrong?”   
“No—I just—I don't like being alone.”   
“Neither do I.”   
John nodded.   
“You should phone your Mum, then.”   
  
Sherlock did, telling her he'd be staying at a friend's house. She insisted upon talking about his performance, which he endured for a few minutes before cutting her off and saying he really must get some sleep, he was so exhausted from it.   
When he hung up John was putting a pillow on the sofa.   
“I don't mind sleeping in here if you want,” Sherlock assured him.   
“No, it's fine. I don't mind the sofa. Slept on it a lot when—you know, sometimes he'd go lock himself in my room.”   
Sherlock nodded awkwardly, unsure what to say. John shook his head.   
“Erm, well, I'll see you in the morning then.”   
He had to stand on his tip-toes to kiss Sherlock on the lips, but he bent down slightly so John could reach.   
He was a bit clumsy at it, but he grabbed John's neck and stroked the base of his hair with his thumb. When they pulled apart, he was out of breath.   
He smiled.   
“Goodnight, John.”   
“Goodnight, Sherlock.”   
  
That night, alone in Watson's room, he dreamed of Victor.   
He dreamed of sneaking behind the rugby field and stealing kisses beneath the bleachers. He dreamed of hiding out in the Tower and talking about physics.   
He dreamed of the smell of peppermint and bergamot always on Victor's clothes, and sitting under stars and laughing.   
He dreamed of dead eyes and a body beneath a sheet, looking more like a mannequin than a person. 

 

John dreamed about his father that night.   
He dreamed about sitting on the porch and holding Jamie close while he listened to the screams inside. He dreamed he heard shattering glass and threats and obscenities like he did when he was fourteen, just a child in a small town afraid of his father. “ _You're under my roof, woman, and you'll do what I fucking say!”  
_ He dreamed about how he hated his father and wished him dead and one day he woke up and he was.

 

Sometime in the early morning, Sherlock abruptly awoken from his slumber by a knock on the door.   
_The dreams were always so real._  
“Come in,” he said shakily.   
John opened the door slowly.   
“Hey,” he whispered. “Sorry to wake you up, I just—“  
His eyes were bloodshot and his voice was shaking.   
“Come here,” Sherlock said groggily, making room.   
John obliged, getting in without a word.   
Neither talked of it the next morning.

 


	25. The Persecution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have some drawings of what I imagine these characters look like on my tumblr (nimwallace) if you want to check them out! Sorry I haven't posted in a few days, had a bit of writers block lol.

The next morning they got up and got ready for school with hardly a word.   
Sherlock had only his tux, so he borrowed some of John's clothes (too baggy and too short, but they smelled of him, a musky scent of pine and cedar) and they ate a hasty breakfast before leaving.   
“It's nice to drive there,” John said as they turned down Templeton Street. “As opposed to. . .you know, walking.”   
“I don't mind picking you up,” Sherlock said softly. “I'd have to make a seven minute adjustment, but it would be fine.”   
“Thanks—that'd be, really good,” John said shyly. He didn't like imposing on other people, but. . .the walk was so painful.   
“How's the leg?”   
Just thinking about it made John flinch a bit. He looked down at the cast. His leg was healing, but at an extremely slow rate. Without a proper cast or physical therapy, his atrophying bones ached something awful.   
“Getting better,” he said slowly. “I—I should probably start exercising it more, strengthen it. . .”   
“Hmm.”  
Sherlock's mind was already far away, on what they'd face once they arrived.   
Before he'd met John, Sherlock had diligently avoided the rugby team, as they were his prime assailants.   
He was stronger than he looked, and he could throw a decent punch. He knew where to hit to make it hurt, he figured out his opponents weaknesses quickly.   
But when there were three, much larger boys surrounding him, his odds were not as good.   
So he didn't go near sports, he even evaded PE altogether after a rather distressing incident in the boys' locker room which he would not soon forget.   
But those boys, they were insecure—they were stupid. John wasn't. John was insecure, sure—but he was strong about it. John wasn't stupid. He didn't take out his insecurities on other people.   
He was even brave enough to drive to school with Sherlock Holmes.  
  
As soon as they walked through the doors Sherlock looked like a skittish bird.   
His eyes kept flitting about and his hands couldn't seem to stay still. He seemed to shrink a bit.  
“You all right?” John said.   
“What? Oh, yes, fine.”   
Then he flinched when he spotted Jack Wrens.   
That flinch made John absolutely furious.   
John grabbed his hand, squeezing it proudly. Hell would freeze over before he let _Jack_ _Wrens_ make Sherlock feel insecure.   
“Are you sure about that?” Sherlock said. “You really want to...?”   
“I'm not letting Jack Wrens dictate my life,” John said. “And he's not dictating yours either. I _hope_ it pisses him off.”   
Sherlock smiled.   
“Me too.”   
So they walked by Jack Wrens holding hands.   
Jack definitely noticed, but he just seemed shocked. Apparently, he didn't take his jokes very seriously, because he didn't react when they walked by, he just remained slack-jawed.   
It made Sherlock stand up a bit taller.   
  
By recess, everyone had heard that John and Sherlock were together. Mary Morstan gave them an encouraging thumbs up during English, and Violet Smith came over during lunch to say very quietly that they were cute together.   
Others mostly just whispered or sent them nasty looks. A couple people hissed “fags” at them, but the usual bullies were startlingly quit.   
Sherlock didn't trust it.   
“Why do all these people care that we're together?” he said in annoyance. John shrugged.   
“Nothing better to talk about, I suppose,” he said. “Let them talk. They'll get over it.”   
At what cost?  
  
After school, Sherlock drove John home.   
“Are you sure you don't want to stay over at my house?” Sherlock asked again. John shook his head.   
“I need to stay in case Inspector Lestrade calls.”   
Sherlock nodded.   
“I'll see you tomorrow, then.”   
He kissed him before driving off.   
  


Sherlock went home, scarfing down his dinner. He was hungry from both the withdrawal and because he'd fasted all day, as he always did when he was stressed.   
“School go well today?” his mother asked.   
“Yes.”   
Mycroft cast him a sideways look, eyes scanning him.   
“Eager for your visit to Davie's tonight?”  
“Hmm.”   
Sherlock always went to Davies on Monday every week to hang around with Irene, smoke a few cigarettes, and shoot the breeze, for the most part.   
Irene usually vented, while he talked about whatever he'd recently researched. It was a mutual agreement they had.   
Sherlock swiftly finished dinner and grabbed his coat.   
  
When Sherlock pulled up to Davies around 8, he immediately felt something wasn't right.   
He parked on the street and got out, looking around cautiously. Then, from the dark alley ahead, three large figures walked out.   
Sherlock's stomach dropped to the ground.   
It was Jack Wrens and his gang.   
Sherlock shrunk back, instinctively getting in a defensive stance.   
“'Ello Queerlock,” Jack said. “Come to visit your dyke friend?”   
_They must have followed me here before.  
_ “Get away from,” Sherlock growled. “What do you want?”   
“I want you goddamn _queers_ out of my school,” Jack hissed. They were getting closer now. Sherlock had to choose, fight, or bolt?   
_They can't outrun me, but they'll wreck my car._  
Jack nodded, and the first blow fell.   
Sherlock was hit in the shoulder by Sawyer, but the blow wasn't enough to knock him down. He dodged the next attack.   
“Funny of you to say that,” Sherlock said, swiftly avoiding a kick by Henry Peters. “When I caught you staring at me in the locker room.   
“NOT TRUE!” Jack roared, and Sherlock was hit again as they closed in around him. He was losing the room he needed for agility.   
Peters kneed him in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him. He crumpled down in surprise, and that was Jack's opportunity to give him a decent kick, breaking a rib.   
Suddenly he couldn't breathe or move as the blows fell on him, one after another with ferocious force and anger.   
Then it hit him.  
They weren't just going to hurt him as they usually did and send him on a short trip to the infirmary. They meant to _kill_ him.

 


	26. The Hospital

Once the thought had registered, his fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and he received a fresh rush of adrenaline.   
He kept fighting to stand back up, get some ground, _something_ , but they were _crushing_ him and his body was a white hot ball of pain as they added injuries on top of injuries, each strike more painful than the last.  
He tried to think clear, technical thoughts. The sooner he got his wits about him, the better chance he had to get out.   
' _(Two) broken rib(s), fractured wrist, (Seventeen) bruise(s), fractured jaw, broken nose, mouth bleeding'.  
_ He coughed and blood dribbled from his jaw, an awful, warm taste of copper and salt. He spat, choking on it.   
“HOW'S THAT FEEL?” Jack guffawed in psychotic amusement. “ARE WE HAVING FUN NOW?”   
Sherlock desperately tucked himself into a ball, trying to shield himself.   
' _They're going to kill me. Just like they killed Victor'.  
_ Just when he was thinking of giving up and closing his eyes, he was startled by the sound of a gunshot. The blows stopped.   
“What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?”   
It was Irene Adler, standing with one hand on her hips and the other holding up a silver revolver.   
Jack and his friends looked up in terror.   
“GET THE _HELL_ OUT OF HERE BEFORE I BLOW YOU TO BITS!” Irene roared.   
“Let's go, c'mon,” Jack muttered.   
They scattered.   
Once they were gone, Irene lowered the gun and ran to Sherlock's side.   
“I'm going to call an ambulance, okay?” she said. “Hang tight.”   
She ran inside.   
Sherlock's body began to hum in numbness until he could no longer feel the pain or the pavement on his cheek. That was _not_ a good sign.   
Irene came back and sat next to him protectively until an ambulance and cruiser sped up to the curb, lights flashing. 

“Do you know what might have provoked the attack?” Baleman asked Irene, who had begrudgingly lit a cigarette and agreed to talk. It wasn't that she had anything to hide, she just _hated_ the Black County PD.   
“Provoke?” she said angrily. “How the hell would he provoke them? They _followed_ _him_ _here_. To _KILL_ him.” She shook her head, taking a long drag. “They've been after him since the seventh grade. I didn't know they'd go this far.”   
Baleman nodded, jotting something down on his notepad. Irene cast a suspicious glance this way. She knew he didn't want to be here—he didn't _care_ about Sherlock. He didn't _care_ that he'd been beaten almost to death. All he cared about was getting this over with so he could go meet his mistress at some sleezy motel.   
She hated that.   
“You better find them,” she said. “Find them and _punish_ them. They deserve hell.”   
“They're just kids,” Baleman said.   
Irene started in amazement.   
Then she promptly threw down her cigarette, snuffed it with the toe of her shoe, flipped him off, and walked away.   
  
Sherlock woke up with florescent lights in his eyes.   
He _hated_ florescent lights—had ever since he was a kid. Florescent lights meant dentist, doctor, _hospital_.   
He was at a hospital.   
It took him a moment to remember what had happened. He'd passed out in the ambulance shortly after it departed.   
He groaned. His whole body ached something awful. He had a massive headache pounding at his skull like a thumping metronome. His bones felt like glass and his hospital gown was plastered to his skin by sweat.   
Then he noticed the chair in the corner.   
_Mycroft_.   
“I see you're awake,” he said, closing his book.   
“Euugh,” Sherlock groaned. “What are you doing here?”   
“Mother had to work, asked me to keep an eye on your condition.”   
“Which is what, exactly?”   
“I'm sure you've figured it out.”   
He had. His assessment during the attack was correct, and he was covered in scrapes and bruises besides.   
“And I'm assuming you know what happened, then?” he said bitterly.   
Mycroft looked up at him again.  
“I told you to be cautious, Sherlock,” he said. “I would hate to see them kill you as they did. . .him.”   
Sherlock's throat closed up at the notion, but he ignored it.   
“They don't decide what I do,” he muttered.   
“No. You decide. But you face the consequences.”   
Sherlock couldn't believe he was saying this. He did not deserve to be attacked for holding hands with someone.   
“Go home, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “I'm fine. You can tell Mum I threw you out.”   
Mycroft chuckled.  
“As if she would buy that one. Goodbye, Sherlock. Get some rest.”   
  
John waited for Sherlock to pick him up, but he never came.   
John sat on his porch, checking his watch for an hour before he accepted the fact. _Bloody git's forgotten,_ he thought.   
He went inside and dialed the Holmes's number, but got the answering machine. Maybe Sherlock had driven straight to school without him.   
He decided to call Mrs Johnson, who taught first period, and explain why he was late and ask if she'd seen him.   
“Oh, you didn't know?” she said sympathetically. “His mother called this morning. He's in the hospital.”  
John's stomach dropped.  
“What? Is he okay? What happened?”   
“I don't know, I'm afraid,” she said. “If you really want to visit him, I'll give you leave this morning.” God bless Mrs Johnson.   
“Thank you so much, Mrs Johnson,” John said earnestly, the phone trembling in his hands a bit.  
“Of course.”   
He rang the Holmes again, and this time he got Mrs Hudson, the landlady.   
“Mrs Hudson? This is John Watson, we met before.”   
“Oh hello dear,” Mrs Hudson said happily. “What can I help you with? Sherlock's not here, if that's it.”  
“I know,” John said, feeling his frantic state slightly relieved by the sound of her merry voice. “Do you know what's happened?”   
“I'm afraid not. But I'm driving to the hospital this afternoon—thought maybe I'd try to cheer him up. Would you like to come?”  
“Yes, please yes,” John said in relief.   
“All right dear. I'll be on my way.”   
  


 


	27. The Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to let you guys know that the reason these chapters are short (usually 1,000 words) is so that I can update every night.   
>  Once I'm finished, I'll probably combine a few of them--including this one with the last chapter.   
>  Also, you guys might remember a similar scene if you've read "The Illustrious Client". Holmes gets beaten up by a gang and Watson is an AngryBoyfriendTM and offers to beat them up. It's all very cute.

Mrs Hudson drove a dainty, 1960s Austin that smelled like lavender and old leather.   
She had a book of crossword puzzles and two saran-wrapped cookies in her lap.   
She chattered about her garden and baking and Sherlock, and usually, John would've been more than happy to listen. Mrs Hudson had evidently been around since Sherlock was a baby, and he would've liked nothing more than to hear funny stories about Sherlock as a kid. He was probably hilarious. John could imagine a small Sherlock saying words far too big for his age and correcting adults on things he shouldn't even know.   
But right now, all he could think of was that Sherlock was hurt, he didn't know why or if it was serious.   
_'What if he's taken it again. God, what if he's overdosed? Please don't let it be that.'  
_ Mrs Hudson glanced at him, noticing his nervous state.   
“I'm sure he's fine, dear,” she said sympathetically. “Mycroft didn't sound so concerned about it when he told me. And you know how Sherlock is—he's probably gone and done something silly.”   
“Yeah,” John said, feeling a bit better. “Probably.”   
But the notion didn't completely alleviate his concern. Not when he'd seen how Mycroft acted last time Sherlock was in trouble.   
When they arrived at the hospital (after Mrs Hudson had huffed at the receptionist that they _were_ family, thank you very much) John sat in the hallway while she went it first. He could have only one visitor at a time.   
John stared at the linoleum floor with something of a hatred. He had once enjoyed the sound of linoleum under people's shoes, making that pleasant “ _click_ , _click_ , _click_ ”. It reminded him of when Jamie was born and he'd visited him in the hospital for the first time and seen his big brown eyes looking up at him.   
But he started to hate it when his mum was gone, and instead he was coming here for his father, because he'd been hurt in some brawl, or was threatening himself with a gun.   
But that's why he wanted to work here—to heal people instead of damage them. To do something meaningful.   
It seemed like hours before a huffy Mrs Hudson stalked out of the room.   
John stood up.   
“How is he?”   
“He'll be fine,” Mrs Hudson said bitterly. “God have mercy on the boys who hurt him if I ever see them—“  
“Wait, boys hurt him?” John said in confusion.   
“You'd better go in and hear the story for yourself, dear. I'm going to get some coffee downstairs.”   
  
John quietly opened the door.   
Sherlock was in bed, all covered in casts and bruises. One of his eyes was deep purple and another had a gash under it.   
He looked like he'd been hit by a bloody car.   
“Watson?” he said quietly. “Is that you?”   
“Yeah,” John said slowly, swallowing the shock of seeing him like this as he approached the bed. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked, sitting down in the metal chair beside Sherlock.   
Sherlock smiled feebly and shrugged.   
“They followed me to Davie's—Peters and Sawyer and Jack. I thought they were just going to give me a few routine blows. I was wrong.”   
Something broiling rose in John's chest—a deep, ferocious fury he hadn't felt since he'd seen his father strike his brother. An acute _hatred_ he reserved only for those who hurt the people he was most loyal to. A righteousness of sorts.   
He clenched his fists.   
“I'm going to _kill_ them,” he growled.   
“They're in police custody right now. If I'm correct, their parents will bale them out tomorrow.”   
“But this is—this is attempted _murder_ ,” John cried. “Surely they have to do some time—“   
“For now, it's aggravated assault,” Sherlock corrected bitterly. “Less paperwork, you know.”   
John turned away.   
“It's fine, you know,” Sherlock said. “I knew this would happen. And it's awful, and I hate it, but it's how it's always been.”   
“Well it _shouldn't_ be like that.”   
“I know.”   
They were quiet for a few moments. John took Sherlock's hand, the not fractured one, and squeezed it, instinctively gliding his thumb across his pulse.   
“Give the word and I'll make them regret this,” John said softly. Sherlock smirked weakly.   
“I know you would. But they'll get what they deserve someday. They hate themselves, every one of them. That's enough for me for now.”   
John nodded, even though it didn't seem like enough for him.   
“How'd you stop them?” he asked after a moment.   
“I didn't,” Sherlock said. “Irene did. Came out of Davie's with a revolver and scared them off.”   
John chuckled softly.   
“I always did like her.”   
“Hmm, she's almost as mad as I am.”   
“Maybe that's why.”   
Quiet for another couple of minutes while John traced the lines in Sherlock's palm.   
“It's all right, you don't have to stay here,” Sherlock said. “Mrs Hudson's waiting outside. It's nearly time for her afternoon tea.”   
John nodded, though he desperately didn't want to leave. But he'd thought of it left and right, there was no way he could stay and get a ride back home—and the hospital wouldn't let him stay overnight.   
“When will they let out?”   
“Tomorrow afternoon. Want to keep me for observation for one more night.”   
“Will I see you tomorrow, then?”   
“Maybe.”   
John bent down and kissed the top of his head, then he changed his mind and went for his lips. The bottom one was split.   
“Stay out of trouble until then,” he said.   
“I will, Watson.”   
“You'd better, Holmes.”

 


	28. The Violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see I'm running low on chapter titles starting with "the"

After the hospital visit, John spent an hour pacing about his house in a kind of unbridled rage.   
It was almost foolish, how angry he was. But he had a right to be, didn't he? They'd hurt Sherlock. What was more, they'd carefully and methodically planned out how to do it.   
Finally, he picked up the phone and dialed his last resort.   
“Hello, this is Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.”   
“Hi Inspector, it's John. John Watson.”   
“Oh, hello John,” the DI said. “Something cross you're mind? If you're calling for another update, I'm afraid nothing's happened today either.”   
He'd been calling every day.   
“Erm, no, I figured,” he said somberly. “I was just—I need help with something else, and I didn't know who to ask.”   
A bit of confused silence on the other end for a moment.   
“Well, I can't promise anything, but—if it's within my capabilities—what's the problem, then?”   
John sighed, twisting the cord between his fingers.   
“My. . . . friend was attacked last night,” he explained. “Hurt really bad, he's in the hospital. They have the people in custody at the station—but they'll only admit to an assault charge.”   
“What else would it be?” Lestrade asked.   
“It was attempted murder. They really tried to kill him, Inspector, and won't admit it. They'll be baled out tomorrow.”   
Lestrade let out a heavy sigh.   
“There's not really anything I can do, John,” he said unhappily. “The case is just too low profile to ever be given to us. It's the locals' job, I'm afraid.”   
It's what John had expected to hear, but his chest still tightened in disappointment.   
“Thanks anyway, Inspector,” he said.   
“Sorry about your friend. Hope he recovers fast.”  
He actually sounded genuine.   
At least there was that.   
  
Sherlock, was, of course, not at school the next morning, but word of the attack had spread.   
“How is he?” Mary asked John during lunch.   
“He's okay,” John said, glad to have some company. “Getting out today. I just. . .I'm angry, that's all.”  
“So am I.”   
John had expected things to be awkward between him and Mary, but their breaking up had blossomed a surprisingly comfortable friendship. She'd started flirting with Roy Rodgers, a nice guy on the football team, and John didn't feel particularly one way or another about it. Roy was a good guy, and Mary deserved that.   
John nodded, poking at his food. He wasn't very hungry today.   
“I just wish the police would do more. Seems like I'm always wishing that these days.”   
Jamie's face was becoming scarily less vivid in his memory every day. He had to look at photographs just to remind himself what his brother looked like.   
“I know,” Mary sighed. “But it's gonna be okay, John. It's a bit of a shit show now, yeah, but that's Black County, isn't it?”   
“Yeah,” John said. “That's Black County.”   
  
He first caught sight of Jack and his friends at recess.   
They were leaning against their lockers, talking and laughing like they hadn't just been baled out of jail, hadn't just beaten an innocent person.   
The sight of them sent John's blood boiling.   
But he thought of what Sherlock said, and he tried to control himself as he walked by. Five steps never seemed so far.   
That's when it happened.   
“Hey, Captain!”   
He stopped in his tracks and turned around.   
Jack was smiling, his face like a twisted, gleeful target. John wondered in that moment if Jack really was some kind of psychopath like Sherlock said.   
“How's your boyfriend doing, a bit bruised up?” Jack asked.   
John froze for a moment.   
And then he was hitting, punching, kicking, yelling. He didn't know what or where, just that Jack Wrens was beneath his fists and he wanted to hurt him.   
He could hear people around him, chanting. Feel hands trying to pull him away. He could see red, dribbling from Jack's jaw.   
But he didn't stop.   
“Hey! Hey!”   
It was Principle Milverton.   
John didn't care, he kept going until the principle yanked him away and hissed at the kids in the hallway to scatter.  
“Go to the infirmary,” Milverton snapped at Jack. “You're coming with me.”   
He dragged John to his office.   
  
John had never really been to the principle's office in any sort of trouble. So when Principle Milverton threw him down in a chair and sat across from him with a seething look, it felt a bit strange. Like he was in someone else's body.   
He was dully aware that there was blood on his fist, but the rush of adrenaline hadn't worn off and he had know clue how badly he'd hurt Jack.   
“What the hell was that about?” Milverton asked. John was quiet. “You've never been a violent kid, Watson, I know that. So what's this about? Is this about a girl?”   
John almost said yes, just so he could get some sympathy and get out of here. But he shook his head.   
“They beat up my friend,” he said. He still didn't say boyfriend. Not to Milverton. Not after the way Jack Wrens had said it.  
“Holmes?” Milverton said. “I see.”   
John didn't speak, his hands shaking as the high wore off.   
“Look, Watson. Because you're a good kid and you've never done anything like this before, I'm giving you three days suspension. Nothing more. But if I catch you doing something like this again, we'll talk.”   
John nodded.   
He ignored the stares as walked out of the office.   
  
“What're we doing next, boss?”   
Moran washed the blood from his hands in the creek and watched with disturbing pleasure as the water turned red. They'd done a good, thorough job this time. No one was going to believe this was anything but just another suicide in the woods.   
The man had a pill problem anyway, and no real family. No one would suspect a thing.   
“I want to talk to our friend Chief Walton,” Moriarty said, peeling his gloves away. “I think we have some unfinished business to take care of.”

 


	29. The Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strayed from the plot a bit for a few chapters, but here's some important plotty stuff with Johnlock too. Does anyone care about the plot? Have some sort of theory as to where he is/what happened at the Lake? Or do you just like the romantic part of it? Either way, thanks for reading so loyally :)

Sherlock _hated_ being an invalid.   
He felt utterly useless—just a mass of weak human flesh trapping an overly active mind. When he was like this—this is when he felt most human of all. When he was aching—when he could _feel_ his body. Most times, he didn't ever feel human. He just felt like an engine, above things like instinct and body. Now he felt chained to it.   
He supposed it could have been worse. He could walk. He could use his right hand.   
His _right_. Why did have to be his _right?_ Sure, it was his dominant hand, but he had fractured his _fret_ hand. He couldn't even _pluck_ his violin to practice. But a musician did not stop practicing when they were injured.   
Instead, he listened. To recordings of himself, of Ishtak Pearlman and Heifetz and all the greats. He memorized melody lines, he identified pitches. He _heard_ the bow work, the ups and downs and flourishes and staccato. He hummed along, matching pitches with his voice. There was almost never an excuse not to practice—not when there were so many ways to do so.   
But he also watched the clock eagerly, waiting for when he could drive to Watson's house, when Watson would be home from school.   
It was all he could think about since he'd been discharged from the hospital that afternoon.   
_Pathetic, really. But he does this to me.  
_ “Are you planning on _driving_ somewhere?” his mother said in an appalled voice as he donned his coat. Snow was beginning to fleck the window.   
“Yes,” Sherlock said, stuffing his keys in his pocket.   
“Absolutely not. Mycroft will take you. Mycroft!”   
Sherlock smirked as his brother begrudgingly shuffled into the room.   
“Oh, not this again,” he sighed. “Must you _really_ see Watson today? I thought he came by to see you yesterday.”   
“Hush now and drive your brother. He's been through something very traumatic, I don't want to hear you bad mouthing him!”   
Sherlock grinned as Mycroft gave him a nasty look and opened the door.   
  
“He's not even going to be home,” Mycroft sneered as they drove. “School isn't out yet.”   
“I'll wait for him,” Sherlock said.   
They drove in silence for a bit, Mycroft's eyes on the road and Sherlock's out the window. He liked the snow—liked how it cleaned everything up, put everything neatly in it's place beneath blankets of white. But then, it buried them too, didn't it?   
“Be careful, Sherlock.”  
They'd pulled into Lake Street.   
Sherlock nodded, got out of the car, and was surprised to see lights on inside.   
  
He didn't bother knocking, opening up the door to find Watson sitting on the sofa with his legs beneath him and a book in his hands.   
When he looked up at Sherlock, his face lifted.   
“Hey,” he said. “How are you feeling?”   
“Fine,” Sherlock said, looking at Watson's lip. One was cracked, he'd bitten it. And there was a mark on his arms—a cat? No, finger nails. Scraping down, like someone had been clawing at him. He was home early—then—ah. He'd gotten in a fight and gotten suspended.  
“Who did you fight to get suspended?” Sherlock asked as he shed his coat.   
John looked at him in surprise, then slowly smiled.   
He got up and walked over to Sherlock, standing on his toes to kiss him on the forehead.   
“Amazing. Jack.”   
Sherlock couldn't help but feel a bit flattered at the thought that Watson may have actually beaten up Jack Wrens for him.   
“Did you really? Why?”   
“Because he hurt you. And I was angry. Never liked him, anyway. Even before—you know, he was always kind of a cock.” He was ranting now, over explaining.   
Sherlock blushed a bit despite the fact he knew the behavior was reckless on John's part.  
“You shouldn't have. You've gotten in trouble now.”   
John shrugged, rubbing his arm.   
“He deserved it. Besides, just suspension. It's just a few days free of school, right? No parents to get mad at me.” He didn't mean the last part to sound bitter, but it did. Sherlock nodded a bit gravely.   
John looked away. His eyes wandered to the window, getting covered in snow now. His mouth pressed into a thin line.   
“It's awfully cold,” he said. “Do you think he's cold out there?”   
“I hope not,” Sherlock said softly. “I hope not.”   
  
Walton drummed his fingers on his desk.   
Baleman was unusually late. He usually came about ten minutes late, but today he was over an hour into his shift.   
The Chief had called several times only to get the machine. Lazy bastard.   
“You've got some mail, sir.”   
It was his secretary, Donna. The one with the dramatic, frizzy blonde curls doused in hair spray and the lipstick three shades too dark.   
“Thanks Donna, leave it on the desk.”   
She did, glancing at the phone as she left, as if knowing he wanted it to ring.   
Walton put out his cigar and took a gulp of coffee before picking up the letter. It was in unfamiliar hand-writing, addressed to him, but with no return address.   
He figured he probably should be more careful, considering he did have enemies, but at the moment he didn't care enough to bother.   
He tore it open with reckless abandon, and a photo fell out.   
It was the Lake.   
He picked it up, examining the blurry image. He flipped it over. There was writing scrawled on the back.   
He reluctantly put on his reading glasses and leaned closer to read it.  
His blood ran cold.  
  
 _1969_  
i drown the children

 


	30. The Villain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I've just written a new song based on this fic, so I thought I'd share https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yVh3PmGXABE  
> I'm new to recording music, but I was happy with how it came out despite how I can't sing lol :P if the link doesn't work, it's called "lets leave and never come back". My musical-stage name thing is garden.

“So, how long will you be suspended?”   
“Just a few days,” John said, shuffling over with two steaming cups of tea. Sherlock took one gratefully. “I'll probably just pick up a few extra shifts at the Stop Mart.”   
Sherlock nodded, and John got up again, this time retrieving a blanket from his room and throwing it down on the sofa. This one was a worn out quilt with mockingbirds all over it. Sherlock picked at the loose threads as John spread it over both their laps.   
“What about you?” John said. “Going to get yourself in trouble at school without me?”   
Sherlock smirked.   
“You may be forgetting that I went to school for quite a few years before I met you and did just fine, Watson,” he said, sipping his tea.   
“That's not _quite_ true.”   
“No? Who told you so?”   
“Mrs Hudson.”   
Sherlock nearly spit out his tea, accidentally snorting some of it, which made John chuckle.   
“What's she been telling you?” Sherlock cried.   
“Oh, just some stories about you as kid. Did you really label your pants by the day of the week?”   
“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock said sulkily. John smiled and kissed his cheek. He was quite enjoying the fact that he could kiss Sherlock Holmes when he liked.   
Sherlock was enjoying it too.   
“So we kiss now,” he said. John nodded. “And. . . .we go out together. And we hold hands.”   
“What's your point, Holmes?” John said teasingly.   
“Well, it's like. . .we're like boyfriends now, aren't we?” Sherlock said slowly. “Doesn't that make you slightly. . .anxious? Shouldn't you be having some sort of existential crisis right now over the fact that I'm a boy?”   
“Why should I?” John said. “Everyone's told me my whole life how I should be. Why should I listen to anything they say? Learn to let go a bit, Sherlock. This isn't a weakness like you seem to think.”   
Logically, he knew that to be true. He knew that homophobia had no reasonable basis—it was a practice of being afraid of the unknown. And yet, he was afraid. Maybe he wasn't afraid of loving a boy. Maybe he was just afraid of loving anyone.   
“I know it isn't,” he said quietly. “But I just. . .I'm afraid. Not because you're a boy, just because. . .I am.”   
“That's okay,” John said softly. “I. . . .I guess you have reason to be, after the other night.” His voice had gone sour.   
“It wasn't your fault,” Sherlock said, knowing what he was thinking. “They would've done it whether they'd seen us together or not. They'd been planning it for a while.”  
John looked down. He didn't understand why anyone would do something like that for no reason. He didn't feel guilty about earlier in the slightest. He would've kept going, if someone hadn't stopped him. He would've kicked and punched Jack Wrens until he had all the same bruises and scars he'd left on Sherlock—no, until he had more.  
They sat quietly for a bit, each in his own head.  
“Can we listen to the radio a bit?” Sherlock asked finally. “I want to hear something.” The Watson house was achingly quiet.   
“Sure.”   
John reached for the radio, which he kept on the coffee table, and turned the dial. He got past a few stations before he stopped.   
“Is that the chief's voice?” Sherlock said, ears pricking.   
“I think so.” John turned it up and the voice filled the room:   
“--hope for a long cold case. This could just be a prank, but we're optimistic that it could be more. The letter that accompanied the photo had detailed information about the crimes. Maybe it's time to bring closure to the families of some of these victims.”   
“Whose families?” John asked.   
“Shhh!”   
Sherlock leaned closer.   
“Chief Walton, is there a suspect yet? And what do you have to say about Deputy Baleman killing himself yesterday?”   
They both gasped.   
“No sir, there is no suspect at this time. We're getting everything finger printed, and hopefully, we'll be able to bring some light onto who's done this. As for the deputy, I am deeply saddened by the loss. We'll be holding a ceremony on December 11 th for him. ”   
The radio went static.   
“Stupid thing,” John muttered, desperately turning the knob, but the station was gone, replaced by something more idle.   
“Long cold case,” Sherlock mused. “A photograph? And a letter? He also said _crimes_ , multiple.” John shook his head.   
“You don't think it could be those disappearances?” John said. “Back in the '60s?”   
Sherlock's brow cinched thoughtfully.   
“Maybe. But Baleman. . .” He shook his head.   
“Do you really think he killed himself?” John asked, feeling a bit uncomfortable at the notion.   
“I don't know,” Sherlock said. “But I don't think it's a coincidence it happened at the same time the letter arrived.”  
  
“What the _hell_ is going on in this town?” Lestrade said in frustration, throwing his pen down on his desk. “Is suicide and disappearing just routine here?”  
The DI was annoyed enough with his lack of leads in the Watson case—now a mysterious letter claiming the sender was responsible for the deaths of twelve children in 1969?   
Gregson shrugged.   
“I dunno, sir. The locals seem a bit funny in the head. Chief says they have a cocaine problem around.”  
Lestrade shook his head.   
“I don't know, Gregson,” he sighed. “I have a terrible, terrible feeling that something evil is in this town.”   
  
“Moran, come here.”   
Moriarty's eager assistant stood, walking over to his side.   
“What'd you need, boss?”   
“You've done many terrible things in your life, Moran.”   
Moran's eyebrows furrowed. He didn't really look at things like good and evil. There was just surviving and not surviving.   
“It isn't a criticism,” Moriarty soothed. “I'm simply wondering how well you would do in regards to our captive.”   
Moran shuffled.  
“Doing what, boss? Whatever you need.”   
“Oh, that is what I like to hear, Moran,” Moriarty said, and his breath tickled Moran's ear. “Because our next task in taking apart this place will be violent.”

 

 


	31. The Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, Irene is 19 and Moriarty is 25. So obviously a fair age gap, but not staggering.   
>  Also, MorMor is still a thing. I probably shouldn't tell you that, but *shrug*

John's suspension came and went, and Sherlock glumly spent the early days of December limping around Black County High.   
After what John had done, Jack Wrens no longer bothered him. Instead, when they met eyes in the hallway, Jack quickly looked away and went about his business, nursing the broken arm John had given him.   
With the cold weather came bittersweet emotions—on one hand, John was almost full healed by the 12th, thanks to Sherlock, who had encouraged him to engage in some physical activities with him (no no, not _that_ —they both had injured limbs to exercise), but he knew his chances of finding Jamie alive were also faltering with each snowfall.   
John had also never particularly liked December anyway—because December always meant Christmas, and Christmas had always meant his father screaming at his mother and then getting piss drunk and angry.   
They'd never had any relatives over, either. John didn't even know of any still alive. He received a Christmas card every year from the “Jones” whom he assumed he was in some way related too—by second or third cousin twice removed.   
But for some reason, he looked forward to the card every year. It was the only remotely personal mail he ever got, and it was a comforting piece of familiarity.   
He and Sherlock watched Baleman's ceremony on the Holmes's television. Sherlock was not convinced it was suicide.   
“He liked himself too much to kill himself,” he remarked as they lowered the casket. John nudged him.

“Be nice. He's just died.”   
“Exactly. He can't hear me.”   
But Sherlock's statement didn't ring completely untrue. Baleman _did_ like himself, and seemed to enjoy his rather depressing life. He also shot himself, a strangely painful way to end his life when he could've overdosed on the pain meds he was already addicted to.   
But John didn't like to entertain those sort of thoughts. Sherlock may have been able to detach himself enough to speak of such things—but John could not. A strange paradox considering Sherlock's own father had committed suicide—but John supposed he'd adjusted to that at a young age. Or maybe he was just so used to it, it no longer phased him.   
_Stop it, John.  
_ So, yes. Winter was bittersweet. But so was everything else.   
  
“Mum, can I talk to you?”   
It was not a sentence Mrs Holmes was used to hearing, and she immediately put down the dishes she'd been scrubbing to look at her son's anxious face.   
“Oh, I thought we might be having this talk soon,” she sighed. “I just assumed you'd go to your brother first.”   
Sherlock's brow crinkled.   
“What?”   
“You've lost your virginity!”   
“ _NO_!”   
Sherlock's face lit up bright red and he put a hand to his forehead. His mother was nothing if not clueless about his life. As if he would tell her if he. . .no.   
“I was _trying_ ,” he muttered, “to ask you if I could have Watson over for Christmas.”   
His mother seemed even more surprised by this. Sherlock had never brought a boy home for dinner, much less asked to have him over for _Christmas_. Not even Victor.   
Mrs Holmes had a lot of sympathy for the Watson boy—what he'd been through with his father and brother. . .and he was such a polite young man.   
“Oh,” she said in surprise. “Oh, yes, that would be lovely, of course.”   
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, still red.   
  
The photograph and letter came back with no trace evidence on it. None. Even the ink on the letter seemed to be some kind of homemade concoction.   
Why confess without turning yourself in?   
The Chief supposed maybe the person felt guilty. Could someone who allegedly drowned four kids feel guilt? He wasn't sure. But the post haunted him.   
He was just a young detective when those disappearances happened, and he could remember the guilt _he_ felt when they'd been found dead. Like he hadn't found them in time.   
He still thought about.   
And being this close hurt that much more.  
  
“Watson?”   
They were sitting in Sherlock's bedroom, studying for an upcoming exam. They were both sitting on the bed, Sherlock's back against the wall and his feet resting on Watson's legs.   
“Hmm?”   
“I have a question for you.”   
John closed his textbook, looking up at Sherlock in a slightly concerned, slightly anxious sort of way.   
“What's that?”   
Sherlock fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.   
“I-I was wondering if maybe you—you'd like to—“   
“Yes?” John smiled.   
“Spend Christmas with me?”   
John was silent for a moment, not quite processing what Sherlock had said.   
“You—you want to spend the holiday with me?”   
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “If you like.”  
John grinned.   
“Yeah—yeah I would. That'd—that'd be lovely, Sherlock. Your family's okay with it?”   
Sherlock nodded.   
“They love you—well, Mrs Hudson and my mum do. I don't know if Mycroft is capable of love.” John chuckled.

“I have a condition, if I'm going to come.”   
Sherlock's eyebrows pinched.   
“What is it?”   
“You have to call me my name. My first name.”   
A smile slowly crept across Sherlock's face.   
“John,” he said, and when he said it meant something more than it did on anyone else's tongue.   
“Say it again,” John said, scooting closer. Sherlock pulled him in.   
“ _John_ ,” he said softly.   
John smiled.   
  
Irene was 20 and every bouncer in the County knew it, they just didn't really give a shit. So she flashed her fake ID and ordered a whiskey and commenced her usual Saturday night people watching.   
At first things were slow, then a man walked in she didn't recognize.   
He was tall and lean, with black hair gelled back and dark, narrow eyes like a snake's. He was dressed sharply and had an easy gait, as if he knew everyone in the room. He sat down next to Irene.   
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked. He had a Northern accent of some sort, maybe Irish, but it seemed clouded with a mixture of London flair.   
“Depends,” Irene said, not unattracted to the man and certainly not apposed to it. “Are you under 40 and have a decent bank account? Just some standards I have.”   
“Respectable,” the man said with a smirk. “Yes to both questions. I am very much under 40, and have a rather _large_ bank account.”   
“Well then.” Irene stuck out her hand. “My name's Irene Adler.”   
“Nice to meet you, Irene. I'm James Moriarty.”

 


	32. The Christmas Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock Christmas okay

Christmas Eve came and Sherlock prepared himself fully for the drastic change that would be made to is holiday tomorrow.   
He'd never really been a fan of Christmas—mostly because Christmas dinner meant listening to his aunts and uncles and cousins bicker about politics or the latest family gossip.   
There were some pleasantries though—he enjoyed the smell of hazelnuts and candle wax and birch wood. He liked to run his fingers across the velvet bows that hung over the chimney.   
Although his mother and Mycroft both attended church (Mycroft more out of curtsy to their mother than actual religious inclinations), they never spoke of Christmas as the birth of Jesus or anything like that. Even Mrs Holmes, who was a Christian, knew better than to believe that Christ was born on a conveniently selected day in December which also happened to be a pagan holiday, thus birthing Christmas.   
But Aunt Susan and Cousin Alec were both _very_ inclined towards this, and offered fervent prayers both before eating and before exchanging gifts.   
And of course, there was always dear Mrs Hudson, who cooked a massive dinner and sat at the head of the table to proudly receive all its compliments.   
Thus, though Christmas had no particular deeper meaning to him, Sherlock could find comfort in at least the familiar patterns it presented.   
But this year, there would be a new addition to the regular traditions.   
John Watson would be attending, which meant introducing him to nosy family members and evading their impertinent questions.   
God help him do it.   
  
“Sherlock, darling.”   
Mrs Holmes straightened her son's tie. “You look very handsome,” she said proudly.   
Sherlock grunted vaguely in response, as he always did when receiving a compliment from his mother.

“About John, tonight,” Mrs Holmes said softly.   
“What?”   
“I think it's best you. . .introduce him as a friend, at least to your cousins. You know how the Vernet's are.”   
Sherlock swallowed. Of course. It was silly of him to have the delusion he could introduce his boyfriend as being such. Disguise was ever present.   
“I know, love,” his mother sighed, patting his cheek. “But you know how they are. I'd hate to stir up drama among the family.”   
Sherlock nodded. He understood, however ridiculous it sounded. But he could not soil the Holmes name.   
“Thank you,” Mrs Holmes said. “The guests should be arriving shortly. Remember, _be_ _civil_.”   
Sherlock smirked.   
  
Every time John did something with Sherlock, it seemed new and exciting to him, yet daunting as well. The Holmes's were a fairly mysterious family in their own right, and John felt he was learning something fascinating and strange about them every day.   
“Uncle Rudolph will be attending, but you mustn't take anything he says seriously, he had his frontal lobe damaged in a plane crash,” Sherlock had told him on Monday.   
And then, on Tuesday:   
“Grandmother Vernet will also be there. She's nearly 105 years old now, a bit hard of hearing, speaks only French except when she feels like English, and she'll start a fight at any opportunity.”   
“Vernet?” John had said. “Kinda like the painter.”   
“Exactly like the painter,” Sherlock had replied. “Grandmother is a direct descendant. Art in the blood.”   
John was starting to feel all the Holmes's were as interesting as Sherlock.   
Of course, they weren't nearly as pretty.   
  
He decided the best course of action would be to wear the suit he'd bought from Irene for the concert. He figured he'd have to bring a present for Sherlock as well, something he agonized over for weeks. It was three days prior to Christmas day he found what he needed at the antique shop.   
He'd tried to wrap it five times before he'd managed it successfully, and he even put a little bow on top. He was quite pleased with his work.   
The party began at 6, but it was at 5:30 that a maroon Ford pulled into his driveway.  
  
“Happy Christmas, Watson.”   
“John,” John said, smiling. “You promised.”   
“Happy Christmas, John.”   
“Happy Christmas, Sherlock.”   
They kissed. Sherlock smelled like hazelnuts rather than his usual scent of roses and bergamot, and his dark hair was gelled instead of soft.   
“I can't wait to meet the rest of your family,” John said.   
“I hope you're ready.”   
  
221b was buzzing when they arrived.   
20 minutes late, because they'd gotten into a bit of a tryst in the car. Neither minded.   
“Oh _Sherlock_ , is that you?”   
It was a woman with large hair in an unruly updo, holding a half-drunk glass of wine and sporting too-long nails. _This must be Aunt Linda,_ John remembered from Sherlock's descriptions.   
Sherlock kissed her on the cheek.   
“Aunt Linda, this is my close friend John Watson.”   
_Friend?_  
Linda looked at him, squinting a bit.   
“Nice to meet you,” she said.   
“Likewise.”  
“I must be seeing Mycroft now, where is your brother? I haven't spoken to him in ages.” Sherlock pointed to an armchair where Mycroft sat with his legs crossed in conversation with Aunt Susan. He looked miserable.   
Linda scurried off.   
“She's already tipsy, she'll be drunk by 6:45,” Sherlock whispered. “She's a lightweight, and she's had two glasses.”  
John smirked.   
He was introduced to a flurry of people, all whom he desperately tried to remember. But the most interesting perhaps was Sherlock's grandmother.   
She sat in a wooden chair holding a gnarled wooden cane. She had wispy white hair and narrow eyes, but she saw them before they reached her.   
“Bonsoir, Sherlock!”   
“ Bonsoir, Grand-mere,” Sherlock said in a perfect French accent. “Mon ami ne parle pas français, voudriez-vous parler anglais pour qu'il puisse comprendre?”   
The old woman nodded.   
“Je ferai une exception cette fois.”   
She turned to John, who stood there in confusion during their conversation.   
“Hello,” she said in a deep French accent.   
“Hello, Mrs Vernet,” John said nervously. “I-I can't tell if Sherlock's told you, but my name is John Watson. It's a pleasure to meet you.”   
“And you as vell, young man. I can see my _petit_ - _fils_ has chosen vell in his romantic interest.”   
John raised his eyebrows, blushing slightly, and Sherlock's eyes twinkled.   
“Keep your voice down please, Grandmother,” he said seriously. “Most of the family doesn't know.”   
“Don't tell me to keep my voice down, I will ve as loud as I please!” Grandmother Vernet declared, gently tapping Sherlock with her cane. “And I know this, most of ve's people are idiots anyvay.”   
_So that's where Sherlock gets it from._  
“En effet, Grand-mère. Voulez-vous m'excuser avec John un instant?”   
“Oui. Good to meet vou, young man,” the old woman said as Sherlock pulled John by the sleeve away. “Where are we going?” John asked as Sherlock tugged him up the stairs.   
“I just need a moment to breathe,” Sherlock sighed as he closed his bedroom door behind them. He sat on his bed and took deep breaths for a few moments.   
It was so loud downstairs, so many voices all mixing together to create a monotonous scream. And people's arms and elbows kept touching him—unfamiliar fabrics and skins against his.   
“Is this hard for you?” John asked softly. “So many people at once?”  
Sherlock nodded.   
“They're so loud,” he said. He pulled out a cigarette and opened his window. He sat away from John, smoking it until his heart rate slowed.   
“I like it,” John said with a small smile. “And I like your family. I see where you get your madness from.”   
Sherlock smirked.   
“You don't regret it?”   
“Not a bit.”   
They sat in comfortable silence for a bit as Sherlock smoked.   
“I never had it, like this,” John said, running his hand across Sherlock's desk. “A big family, I mean. It's. . .it's nice.”   
“I'm glad you like it,” Sherlock said as he got rid of his cigarette and wrapped his arms around John's waist. “Because you're not getting rid of me anytime soon.”   
John smiled.   
Then there was an explosive sound downstairs.   
  
  


 


	33. The Christmas Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probs won't post for a few days. Having friends and family over.

Sherlock swiftly started down the stairs, John at his heel.   
Chaos had errupted downstairs.   
Cousin Dan was snogging his new girlfriend in the corner, smoke came in huge plumes from the kitchen, Grandmother Vernet was yelling in French and whacking anyone within reach with her cane. Aunt Linda was passed out on the rug and it seemed Aunt Susan had fled. Good riddance.   
“What's going on?” Sherlock yelled, arm covering his mouth.   
“There's just been a small accident!” Mrs Holmes said, opening the windows and desperately fanning away the smoke with a hand towel.   
“The ham's exploded!” Mrs Hudson cried. “What could've done this?”   
Sherlock jogged over, still covering his face and taking the blackened ham out of his landlady's hands.   
He put it aside and ushered her out of the smoke.

There was a broken bottle by the oven.   
Sherlock felt his stomach sink.   
“ Everyone QUIET for a moment!” Mycroft yelled. The room fell silent. “My very intelligent _brother_ ,” he sneered. “Has left a vial of hydrogen peroxide by the oven, which caused the explosion. We will have to exit the apartment lest anything else react to the gas.”   
Everyone gave Sherlock a look as he gingerly used an oven mitt to pick up the vial. Grandmother gave him a whack on the shoulder with her cane and said, “ _Petit_ _garçon_ _idiot_ , _je_ _t'ai_ _élevé_ _plus_ _intelligemment!”_  
Sherlock winced.   
He followed everyone out, John beside him as they all filed to the curb. The chilly air bit into them.  
“I'm so sorry everyone,” Mrs Holmes said, looking nearly ready to cry. “I'm—I'm not sure what to say. Happy Christmas, I suppose.”   
Mycroft put an arm around her and squeezed her shoulders.   
“I'm—I'm sorry,” Sherlock muttered. “It—it was for an experiment, the peroxide, I didn't mean to leave it by the oven—“  
“Yeah right,” cousin Dan said. “You probably planned this out for another sick experiment. You've always been. . .weird, ever since you were a kid.”   
Sherlock looked down.   
People began to line up to Mrs Holmes, offering their condolences and saying it really was a lovely party, up until that last part, and they hope they'd see her again very soon.   
John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing it gently.  
“It was just an accident,” he said. “No one is hurt.”   
“I've ruined the oven,” Sherlock said. “And probably scorched quite a few things. And I've upset everyone.”   
“But you didn't mean to.”   
“Mum, I'm sorry—” Sherlock said as Mycroft went inside to check the damage.   
“I know, child,” Mrs Holmes sighed, wiping her tears. “Just. . .give me some time.”   
Sherlock nodded as Mrs Hudson patted his mother's shoulder.   
“Maybe it's best for you to go take John home,” Mrs Hudson suggested gently. Sherlock nodded again.   
“I'm sorry, about that,” Sherlock said as they drove. Snowflakes dusted the windshield.   
“Don't be, best Christmas I've ever had,” John said with a smile. Sherlock looked at him.   
“Really?”   
“Yep. I loved it.”   
Sherlock smiled.   
John wasn't lying, it really was wonderful. Chaotic, maybe, but good chaotic. Just like Sherlock himself. 

John didn't have to ask Sherlock in, he just followed instinctively. They'd fallen into a routine of nights like these—nights where it was just the two of them and they were both tired and a bit drunk on each other.   
John took out the big quilt and he made two cups of tea and he put the radio on the coffee table. And the radio played Christmas songs—Silent Night, it sounded like, and Sherlock had no qualms about wrapping John in his arms when he sat down.   
“Tell me what your Christmas's were like before,” Sherlock murmured into John's hair. John sighed, adjusting himself slightly. The memories seemed far away in this room—this room was clean and safe now. It hadn't been before.   
“They always started out okay,” he said. “You know, Jamie was always excited, and he'd hop out of bed early and wake me up.” That was by far the best part of those Christmas's. Jamie's excited face. “And we'd each get a present and a piece of candy. Then the fighting would start.” John paused. He hated how well he remembered those fights in contrast to how blurry his memories of the good days were. “It was usually about a family member, or money. Then Dad would storm out and we wouldn't see him until the next day.”  
His mother tried so very hard for him and his brother—he remembered that. He remembered his mother giving them gentle smiles, and he remembers her saying, “You be strong for your little brother, John. He needs you.”   
Sherlock nodded, pulling him a bit closer. Their touches had become something each needed from the other, something neither got enough of anywhere else.   
“After my mum died,” John continued, playing with the hem of his shirt, “it sort of just. . .stopped. We'd wake up and Dad would already be gone and there was no tree and no presents.” He didn't know _what_ he had expected that first Christmas without her. Maybe he'd secretly wished his father would make an effort. “And then, I kind of took over. I started chopping down the tree and buying Jamie a present and putting Christmas songs on.”   
“You were good to your brother,” Sherlock said softly. “You took care of him. You will again, when we find him.”   
John nodded, his eyes clouding with tears. He blinked them away angrily.   
“I got something for you.”   
Sherlock suddenly moved away, and John immediately felt the lack of warmth. But he came back swiftly, holding a small, neatly wrapped package.  
“Wait, I have one for you as well,” John said. He ran to the coat rack and pulled the parcel from his jacket pocket. “I hope you like it,” he said as he handed it to Sherlock. “I—I wasn't really sure what to get you.”   
Sherlock gingerly unwrapped it and nearly gasped at what he saw. It was Frankenstein, a rare copy. The only fictional book he'd ever liked. He'd told John—God knows how long ago (in March?) that he used to love the book as a child, and reread it every year.   
“This is lovely, John,” Sherlock said softly. “Thank you.” John smiled, pleased.   
Sherlock admired it for a second more before gingerly setting it aside and handing John a neatly wrapped rectangle.   
John opened it up.   
It was a CD.   
“What's this?” he asked.   
“Listen to it, when I'm not here,” Sherlock said. John raised his eyebrows, intrigued, but put it aside all the same.   
“Sherlock?”   
“Yes?”   
“Thanks. For everything.”   
Sherlock paused a moment.   
“Happy Christmas, John.”   
  


 


	34. The Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE

A new letter  
It was under bills and the paper, but it was there.   
A new letter, smeared in blood.   
  
They'd fallen asleep on the sofa some time around midnight, Christmas music still playing softly on the radio.   
John woke up around 3 am to find himself still in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock was still fast asleep, murmuring something different types of ash.   
John yawned quietly. He was about to go back to sleep when he saw the CD Sherlock had given him on the coffee table.   
He'd been bursting with curiosity about it since Sherlock had told him to wait until he was gone to listen to it.

Glancing at Sherlock, then moving carefully so as not to wake him, he stood up and snatched it from the table. Then he stole away quietly into his room.   
His CD player was by his bed, 'Sheer Heart Attack' still inside. He took it out and put it gently back into it's case before sliding the shiny new disc in.   
He pressed play.   
A violin began.   
He knew right away it was Sherlock playing—no one else played as softly and with such...genuineness as he did. Not a single note was a lie.   
He recognized the song in seconds.   
It was “Love of My Life,” the song that had been playing that day back in October. One of John's favorites. And Sherlock was playing it. Playing it for him.   
He felt warmth spread through his chest. This was almost uncharacteristically thoughtful of him. “I'm not sentimental, Watson,” he'd said so many times. But he was. He remembered what John said, what he liked and didn't like, what he wanted.   
It was sweet.   
John listened to the whole thing with utter absorption until it ended and he realized there was a figure in the doorway.   
“Did you like it, Watson?”   
John looked up.   
“I thought you were calling me John now,” he said, still trying to savor the last note he'd heard.   
“Christmas is over. First names are for special occasions only. You didn't answer.”   
“I loved it,” John said with a smile. “I loved it, Sherlock. It was beautiful.”   
Sherlock flushed, as though he had been expecting a bad reaction.   
“Why do you call me Watson instead of John?”John asked suddenly. Sherlock met his eyes again.  
“It was on the back of your rugby jacket. Before I knew you, I didn't know your first name, I just knew the name on your jacket. It was. . .well, silly, really, _stupid_ , in fact, but—“   
“But?”   
“It felt...secret. So that's what I called you, even after I learned your name.”   
A strange explanation, a very _Sherlock_ one. John didn't even know Sherlock had noticed him before they'd become lab partners. He didn't notice Sherlock before, not really. He knew who he was—Sherlock, the queer bloke with the too-long limbs and the smart mouth. But then he'd met Sherlock for the first time, and suddenly he was dragged into the crazy world the two of them created, two damaged people trying to find some light in a small, lonely town with too much darkness.   
“Sherlock?”   
“Hmm?”   
“I love you.”   
It felt like the most natural thing in the world to finally say.   
“I love you too, John Watson.”   
  
The gun against David Adler's back was ice cold. He could feel it as acutely as the bonds rubbing into his wrists.   
“Where's my daughter?!” he cried. “What'd you want with me?!”   
“Compose yourself, Mr Adler,” Moriarty said lazily, bored with the man's begging. “Your daughter is safe for now.”   
“Thank God, thank God,” the man panted. He was panicking, his skin turning red, sweat beading his face. People were _so_ predictable.  
“Do you remember me, Mr Adler?” Moriarty said, leaning in closer to the man's face. Moran pressed the gun deeper into Adler's neck.   
“N-no, I'm sorry, I don't remember—“   
“Oh, hush,” Moriarty snapped. Adler went silent. “Well, I remember you, Mr Adler. You lived on Templeton Street, on the same block as I did as a child. Do you remember little James Moriarty, always starting fires?”   
Davie swallowed.   
“Y-yes,” he muttered. “Yes, I remember you. I remember your dad. You moved away, after the disappearances—“   
“That's right, Mr Adler,” Moriarty said. “Do you remember what you said about me, to your wife?”   
Adler shook his head, eyes squeezed shut, tears running down his face.   
“No, no, please...”   
“You said I was a terror, Mr Adler. You said someone ought to give me a could toss around, show me my place.”   
Davie shook his head faster.  
“Please, please...”   
“Moran.”   
The gun went off.   
  
They were in the middle of a kiss.   
John Watson had just said he loved him. This felt something like a fever dream. He was afraid any moment he'd wake up.   
But he didn't. This was real—John was real. John loved him.   
John was just beginning to unbutton his shirt when there was a harsh knocking on the door.   
John pulled away with an agitated groan. “Who the hell is around at this time in the morning.”  
Sherlock's eyes widened suddenly.   
“Scotland Yard. It must be,” he said.   
John looked at him, slack-jawed.   
Then he bolted to the door.   
  
When John opened the door, the NSY flooded in.   
Men wearing bullet proof vests and holding guns, and Lestrade at the front, holding up a warrant as his eyes swept the room.   
“What's going on?” John demanded.   
“We've just received a tip,” Lestrade said stiffly. “Stand aside, please.”   
John did as he said, dumbfounded as the police searched about. Opening drawers, turning things over.  
“Right here!” one cried. “The attic latch!”   
John jogged over, Sherlock right behind him.   
“What're you looking for?” John cried as the police climbed the attic ladder. “Have you got news about my brother.”   
“It's okay, son,” he heard the officer say gently, but he wasn't talking to John. Was someone in his attic?   
John, ignoring Lestrade's demands, climbed the ladder to the dusty attic and nearly fell back in shock.   
There, crouched in the corner, male nourished and dirty and clutching a bleeding hand, was Jamie Watson.   
  
  
  


 


	35. The Suspect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHAHA merry christmas

Suddenly, there was a desperate blur of moments in which John was clawing his way past the police to scoop Jamie into his arms.   
He was close, so close to getting to him—  
Then, withing seconds, he was being yanked away by a Yarder as he thrashed and screamed.   
“LET ME SEE HIM! LET ME GO!”   
“Calm—down, lad,” the officer restraining him said. Two others managed to pull John away.   
He was in complete shock. His only thought or instinct was to get to Jamie. Another officer was carrying him down from he attic now.   
Jamie was silent as this happened. His eyes were dull and shadowy. His cheeks were much hollower. John didn't notice Sherlock—who was yelling something at Lestrade. John couldn't even feel himself trying to tug away, as violently as he struggled. They were taking him away. Taking him away again. They were taking him out the door—  
Jamie disappeared from his view, and he crumpled.   
The world went black.  
  
“Watson?”   
He sat straight up, panting.   
His body had been glued to the sheets with sweat and he trembled. He tried to gulp in a few steady breaths.   
“Jamie,” he breathed. “Where's Jamie?”   
“He's here, in another room,” Sherlock said softly. “Relax a moment John, he's okay.”   
“I need to see him,” John said frantically. He pawed at his blankets, trying to pull them off. Sherlock held his shoulders.   
“John, you can't.”  
“Why not?! Let me go!”   
Sherlock didn't, firmly keeping him in place.   
“I already tried, Watson. But the Yarders are hopeless—of course, they're all idiots, the lead detective especially—“   
“What're you on about?” John demanded. Sherlock's words scrambled in his head. He could make no sense of them.   
“John, you're considered a suspect,” Sherlock said gently, hand still on his shoulder.   
John blinked, trying to process the words. Suspect. He was. . .a suspect. A suspect in the kidnapping of his own brother?   
“I know, they're idiots,” Sherlock said bitterly. “It's ridiculous. But hopefully, they'll clear you soon. Your DNA won't match the blood on the letter.”   
“Letter?”   
“Chief Walton. He got a letter in the post, all covered in blood that said “he's in Watson's house.”   
John didn't care to think about quite what that meant right now. He just wanted to see his brother, hug him, feel that he was real and not just another disappointing dream.   
“Is he okay?” he asked quietly. “How badly is he. . .?”  
“He's stable, he's going to be fine,” Sherlock promised. “He's male nourished, but they've been feeding him and he's keep it down. I think. . .the trauma is more detrimental.”   
John nodded, swallowing hard. Trauma. God, what kind of trauma exactly had Jamie gone through? Starvation, deprivation. . .what else?  
“Is. . .there anything. . .” John choked, trying to get the words out without sobbing. “Has he been. . .you know. . .”   
Sherlock took a moment to realize what he was asking.   
“Oh, no,” he said. “No, nothing like that.”  
John nodded, swallowing the tears that had come on at the thought. At least that part of his brother's innocence was still intact.   
“When will they let me see him?”   
“Most likely after Lestrade talks to you. It shouldn't be long.”   
  
“John, I don't like this any more than you do,” Lestrade said as he plopped down on a chair across from John. It had been an hour. A nurse had checked on him and given him the okay for the interview while Sherlock waited outside.   
“I didn't hurt my brother,” John said defensively. “I would never do that.”   
“He was in your attic, John. I just need to make sure—“ Lestrade sighed. He was too tired to conduct this interview, really. He couldn't imagine the boy in front of him had kept his brother in the attic, but he'd also seen some horrible things. He'd met people that seemed good on the outside, yet committed unspeakable evils.   
“I'll answer anything,” John said desperately. “Please, I just want to see him.”   
Lestrade threw down his pen and combed his hands through his scalp.   
“I believe you,” he said. “I don't know how or who the hell's done this and got away with it, but I can't make myself picture you doing it, John. I just can't. But you understand, I have to tell them I interviewed you and properly eliminated you as a suspect.”   
“I know,” John said, relieved that Lestrade, at least, knew the truth. Or part of it. “Just ask him. Ask him if it's me.”   
Lestrade looked up at him.   
“Okay, kid. Let's go see him.”   
  
Jamie had tubes in his mouth.   
They were down his throat like snakes, feeding him some kind of liquid nourishment. It wasn't something John had never seen before, but for some reason, it disturbed him this time.   
“Jamie?”   
His brother blinked like his eyelids were bricks.   
“John?” came a small, croaky voice. John nearly sobbed right then. He ran to Jamie's bedside, delicately leaning down to hug the achingly thin form on the hospital bed.   
“I missed you, Jamie,” John said softly. “I'm so so sorry—“ He gave up on not crying now, tears streaming down his cheeks with abandon. After all these months, it was like a million bricks had just lifted from his chest. He'd gotten so used to the pain and anxiety he hardly noticed it until it was gone.   
“John,” was all Jamie could manage to choke out. He was shivering.   
“Jamie, who did this to you?” John said softly. “Who took you?”   
Jamie shook his head violently.   
“A tall man,” he whispered. “He said if I told anyone he'd kill me.”   
“He won't,” John said fiercely. “I won't let that happen. You're safe now, Jamie. It's okay. Tell us his name.”   
Jamie looked at John warily, then squeezed his eyes shut tight. His trembling became more violent. John rubbed his shoulder, trying to calm him down.   
Whoever did this was going to pay hell for it.   
“He said his name is Sherlock.”

 


	36. The Arrest

At first, John didn't full perceive what he'd said, and this time, it wasn't the sedatives the nurses had given him.   
He decided he must've misheard.   
“What did you say, Jamie?”  
“Sherlock Holmes,” Jamie said, and it was undeniably clear now as the six year old trembled.   
“That. . .can't be right,” John said, looking up at Lestrade in desperation. “What did he look like?”   
“Dark hair, and green eyes,” Jamie said shakily. “Like a snake's.”   
John sighed.   
“See? Sherlock's eyes are grey. There must be some kind of mistake—“   
“This is the friend you let look for him?” Lestrade said gravely.   
“Yes,” John said, still holding his ground.   
“The one who's over all the time, who's been at numerous crime scenes, who has a cocaine problem?”   
John swallowed, panic setting in. This couldn't be happening. This was some kind of cruel nightmare.   
“He's been clean for weeks. He was at every searching, looking for Jamie, he couldn't have—he wouldn't—“ He choked.   
No, no, no. Sherlock would not do this to him. It was impossible. That he had for even a second doubted—no, Sherlock would never do this.   
Lestrade laid a hand on his shoulder.   
“You've been through a lot, mate. It's been a long day. Stay with your brother, we'll just ask him some questions.”   
John nodded, his tired mind accepting the explanation for now. He didn't want to think of Sherlock being hand-cuffed and thrown in a cell. For now, he just squeezed his brother's hand and thanked God he had him back.   
  
“Under arrest?!” Sherlock exclaimed as a man named Gregson asked him to please turn around for the cuffs. “For what?!”   
“Take it easy, mate,” Lestrade said as Sherlock reluctantly allowed himself to be cuffed. “We're just gonna ask you some questions about James Watson.   
“This is _preposterous_ ,” Sherlock huffed. “What on earth gave you the idea I'd do such a thing?” He shook his hands, the cuffs uncomfortably tight, agitating him further as the detectives led him to a cruiser.   
“I'll explain everything at the station,” Lestrade promised. Sherlock tried to continue his protest, but Lestrade shut the block between the front and back seats and that was it.   
  
John didn't know what to say to Jamie.   
He had know clue what he'd gone through. He looked smaller yet older than when John had last seen him, and his hand was covered in bandages where he'd been sliced. Or where he'd sliced himself. John pushed the thought away.   
For a while, they just sat in silence, absorbing each others presence. Taking in the fact that they were a family again, that they were both safe. Then a dreadful question came from Jamie:   
“Where's Dad?”   
John looked down, his stomach sinking. He hadn't even had time to think of how he'd explain that. Every time he'd tried to rehearse it at home it became too painful to continue.   
“Jamie. . .Dad is. . .”   
“He's dead, isn't he?” Jamie said in a disturbingly soft, calm voice.   
“Yes,” John said gently. “I'm sorry.”   
“It's not your fault, John. He's with Mama now anyway.”   
Jamie didn't sound very sad at all, which should've worried John, but it didn't.   
“He's probably a lot happier,” Jamie said, noticing John's face.   
“I hope so,” John said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Jamie, do you wanna talk about. . .?”  
“Not right now,” Jamie said. “I'm really tired. Will you stay if I go to sleep, John?”   
“Of course.”   
So he nodded off as if tired after a long day at Templeton Park.   
  
“Mycroft, I'm being accused.”   
“What?”   
Sherlock was allowed one phone call, and he'd chosen wisely. He had already called his family from the hospital to announce that Jamie had been found and he'd be staying to look after Watson.   
They hadn't been expecting a second call from the Black County Police Station.   
Luckily, Sherlock had already been finger printed, and his urine sample came back clean. Now he had to convince Mycroft to help him somehow.   
“Accused, of James's kidnapping,” Sherlock said curtly. “Apparently, he claims the captor told him my name.”   
“And they believed him?” Mycroft huffed indignantly. “Idiots. I'm assuming you intend to prove your innocence?”   
“No, I was going to let them falsely imprison me,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft grunted. “Yes, I do, and I was hoping maybe you'd help me speed up the process.”   
“I'm not bribing anyone,” Mycroft said. “If it comes to a trial, of course I will defend you. But I doubt that. If they're competent, they should be able to tell in an hour if you've done it.”   
“ _If_ they're competent,” Sherlock said. “Which they aren't.”   
“Then I wish you luck, brother.”   
  
If Sherlock wasn't handcuffed, he would've crossed his arms indignantly as he sat across from Lestrade. Instead, he crossed his legs.  
“Can you please state your name and the date for the record?”  
“Sherlock William Holmes. December 26th, 1985. 1700 hours.”   
“Thank you.”   
Lestrade shuffled some papers, which Sherlock assumed contained a brief synopsis of the times he'd been arrested from Chief Walton. He had, a few times, when he was high. He imagined the questionings from Farmer Ed's alleged suicide and Jamie's disappearance were also there.   
“Okay, Sherlock, I just want to ask you a few things.”   
“Oh, to hell with the niceties,” Sherlock sneered. “It's painful to listen to. Cut to it, please.”   
Lestrade sighed.   
“Okay, you're a no bullshit kind of bloke, then? Good. We'll get things done faster that way.”   
He put down the papers and looked Sherlock in the eye, maintaining the eye contact. Sherlock knew the tactic and didn't waver.   
“Sherlock, did you kidnap James Watson?”   
“No.”   
“Did you assist in the kidnapping of James Watson?”   
“No.”   
“Do you have any information about the event which I do not?”   
“ _No_.”   
Sherlock was practically snarling his words now.   
“Okay, Sherlock, I'm going to be frank with you,” Lestrade sighed. “We've tested the blood on the letter. The DNA matches yours.”   
Sherlock snorted.   
“Nice try. I know that trick. The DNA can't be mine, because I didn't send the letter. Besides, you can't have tested it that fast.”   
Sherlock looked at his fingernails. “I'm eager for you to test it, however,” he said. “So all this foolishness can be done with.”   
“So we're not going to find your blood on that envelope?”   
“Not a trace.”   
“Do you know whose blood _is_ on that envelope?”  
Sherlock threw his head back and groaned.   
“This is by far the _worst_ interrogation I've ever heard of,” he said. “You're really lead detective at the Yard?”   
Lestrade sighed.   
“All right, I've had enough of you,” he said. “We'll see if a night in a cell changes your mind.”   
  


 


	37. The Cell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a few things.   
>  First off, I chose to imply that the cells were made of bars, rather than walls, even though TODAY having walls in a juvi holding cell is more common. I've been in them myself (NO I WAS NOT ARRESTED IT WAS FOR RESEARCH) and. . .I pretty much described it here.   
>  Also, I wanted to say I know my writing hasn't been up to it's usual standards as of late, so I'm sorry about that. I haven't been. . .my best, lately, since Christmas break started, since breaking my routine (especially school and the gym) tends to make me insane. I can't STAND doing nothing.   
>  But anyway, yeah, I should be writing better now. Hopefully.

The room smelt of urine and vomit.   
The floors were close together and stained, and the cot in the corner was deeply unappealing. They'd taken off anything on him that he could potentially hurt himself with (including shoelaces) and then thrown him into the juvenile cell.   
Though he was alone in his own foul confinements, the block was not empty.   
The recognized the man across from him, two years older than himself. Robby “Quick” Carthers. Pick pocket, arsonist, and distributor of cocaine.   
“Aye, look 'o it is,” he said when he noticed Sherlock, giving him a wide, partially toothless grin. “”o you been, mate? Caught again?”   
“I'm not your “mate,”” Sherlock snapped, not particularly happy to see his old seller. “We just do business. Or. . .used to. And no, I'm clean now.”   
“Sure ya are,” Quick smirked. “You'll get back to it. They always do. Me and the boys miss ya.”   
“Miss my money.”   
“Awe, don't be so cynical.”   
Sherlock had once considered people like Carthers his friends. He'd buy some coke and they'd shoot it together. But he learned quickly that people like Carthers didn't care for anyone. It's not like he needed the money, either. He was from a well-off family. He just didn't want to work for it.   
“Leave me alone, Quick,” Sherlcok snarled. “It's been a long day. I don't want to chat.”   
“Fine then,” Quick said. “But a'I'll see ya soon.”   
Sherlock faced the other way and didn't answer.   
  
“I'll be eighteen in a week,” John said helplessly to the social worker. “Please. Please, I need him home.”   
The woman's eyes furrowed. She looked about 30, with reddish brown hair pulled back in a neat pony tail and rectangular glasses on the bridge of her petite nose. She seemed nice enough, but skeptical.  
“In a week? And you've been living on your own since your father's death, underage?”   
John fiddled with his sweaty hands nervously.   
“I supported myself through my job. Please, I can take care of him.” John was trying not cry now. They could not, _could_ _not_ take Jamie from him.   
“Listen, Mr Watson,” the social worker said, “We can hand over custody once you've turned eighteen and we see that the home is fit.” John sighed in relief.   
“Thank God. Until then. . .?”  
“He'll recover here.”   
He deflated a bit. He didn't want to let Jamie out of his sight, but he knew his brother need healing.   
“Thank you.”   
“You're welcome, Mr Watson.”   
  
The night was endless.   
Sherlock hated the sounds and smells inside the cell. Anything remotely different than what he was used to was trying enough, but in a place this foul. . . .he shuddered.   
The temperature dropped, but it seemed the least of his discomforts when a clearly upset young man was brought in, screaming obscenities at the officer who was escorting him, unfortunately, the cell right beside Sherlock's.   
“What're you looking at, faggot?!” the young man growled at Sherlock when he caught him looking.   
“Evidently, a fussy toddler,” Sherlock said shortly. “I'd suggest you shut up, it's quite annoying and if you don't I'll tell the next officer in that you've been scratching yourself and he'll put you in a confinement chair. Not very cozy, mind you.”  
Sherlock knew there were actually cameras in the cells, but the boy next to him evidently did not, and did as he was told.   
  
And though he stopped yelling, he didn't stop talking.   
“What, you been in one, you fucking prep?”   
_Prep. Ah, so he's one of those kind.  
_ Sherlock ignored him.   
“ANSWER ME!” the boy screamed.   
“You won't get through 'im, mate,” Quick groaned from his cell. “Jus' give it up now.”   
The boy shouted a bit more, than sat back on his cot sullenly, defeated. For once, Sherlock was grateful for Quick's presence.   
  
Once John had dealt with social security, he had a knew problem to worry about.   
Sherlock.   
How in God's name did Jamie even know who Sherlock was? He'd already determined it was impossible that Sherlock had committed the crime. He wouldn't do that. Besides, Jamie had said the man's eyes were green, and Sherlock's were undoubtedly an unforgettable shade of blue-grey.   
Jamie wouldn't forget seeing the eyes of his captor.   
No, the only real connecting factor was the name. Someone must be setting Sherlock up. Or maybe Jamie was just so traumatized he'd picked a name he'd heard John mention and stuck with it.   
Well, whatever it was, it wasn't him. Hopefully Lestrade had questioned and cleared him by now.   
He rang the Holmes house from the hospital.   
“Hello, Holmes residence.”   
It was Mrs Hudson.   
“Hi Mrs Hudson, it's John,” John said.   
“Oh, hello dear,” Mrs Hudson said brightly. “I'm so glad to hear your brother is safe and sound! It must be such a relief.”   
“You have no idea,” John muttered. “I was just wondering if Sherlock had come home yet?”   
“Oh, no, sorry,” Mrs Hudson said. “They're keeping him overnight, poor dear. He's been having a rough few days, hasn't he?”   
“They're. . .arresting him?” John said in shock. “Officially? They're keeping him there?”   
“They haven't charged him officially yet,” Mrs Hudson said soothingly. “I'm sure they'll have it all worked out by tomorrow, then we can catch the real bastard that did this! Oh, excuse my language! Do you need anything else, John? Anything at all?”   
“No, thank you,” John said. “I appreciate it. Goodnight, Mrs Hudson.”   
He hung up the phone.   
  
Sherlock slept for a total of two hours. Then he had to wait in his cell until that afternoon when Lestrade returned.   
A stocky officer called Sergeant Garamond let him out, cuffed him again, and took him back to the interrogation room, Quick winking behind him.   
Lestrade was already there.   
“How you feeling this morning?” he said slyly. Sherlock scowled.   
“Perfectly innocent, thank you. Have you figured as much out yet?”   
Lestrade rolled his eyes.   
“I was hoping you'd come to your senses.”   
“And I was hoping you'd come to yours. Yet here we are.”   
Lestrade glowered.   
“You must see how this looks, Sherlock.”   
“I see it perfectly clearly. A young, traumatized child has made a mistake, which you chose to take as gospel. Now I am here, trying to explain to you why that's idiotic.”   
“He didn't pull that name out of a hat. He described what you look like.”   
“He said I have the wrong coloured eyes. Can you not see that this is ridiculous?” Sherlock threw his hands up in exasperation.   
“Is it? You've got a minor criminal record, you used cocaine, you're regularly been found at crime scenes, you're constantly at the Watson house, and _he_ _said_ _your_ _bloody_ _name_. Just admit it, and this whole process will be done much faster.”   
Sherlock wasn't deterred. He knew what was coming, yet he looked Lestrade right in the eyes.   
“No.”

 


	38. The Interrogation

Sherlock knew exactly what was about to begin.   
He hadn't neglected to read up on NSY and FBI interrogation methods, and he knew he was likely going to be in this room for a very long time.  
It was 12:30 now.   
Let the games begin.   
  
John slept in the hospital, his mind turning all night despite his exhaustion.   
He thought about Jamie, how he'd support him and help him cope, he thought about looking for a better job, maybe quitting school to work full time. He thought about what it would mean if Sherlock was formally accused and went to trial. Then somewhere, when his mind was at the edge of sleep, he thought about his mother, what she would do. But the logical train of thought slowly dissipated until he fell asleep to the image of her warm brown eyes watching over him.   
  
Lestrade decided he'd get through to Sherlock with a good cop/bad cop approach. Although he hadn't responded well to his pleasantries at first, maybe he'd be more open with Gregson.   
“Ah, hello,” Sherlock said as Gregson plopped down in the seat in place of Lestrade. “Brought coffee, I see. Two cups, one with cream and two sugars, the other black. You don't know how I like mine, but you guessed correctly. A shame I'm not thirsty.”   
Gregson blinked.   
“Well, Sherlock, I'm just here to talk—“   
“I'm not the one who needs therapy. Look at you. A mess. The wife's left, has she? And taken the kids.” He clicked his tongue. “That's really too bad.”   
Gregson looked surprised, but didn't waver.   
“I've been told you're very smart,” he said. “Brilliant, even.”   
“That's true.”   
“So you know then, Sherlock, the difference between right and wrong,” Gregson continued, voice still soft.   
“The difference between detrimental and not.”  
“Sure. Detrimental. What's detrimental to you?”   
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He was getting very bored, and this man was stupid. As if he could therapist his way into a confession.   
“That which causes harm or invokes consequence,” Sherlock said. He'd practiced that definition, when he was little and he did something not-very-good and he didn't _understand_ why it was not-very-good, his mother would tell it to him like a mantra.   
“So you know that causing harm is. . .detrimental.”  
“I'm aware, yes,” Sherlock replied wryly.   
“So you know that kidnapping is harmful.”   
Sherlock groaned.   
“Yes, I know. And it most definitely has consequences, apparently even if you're not the one who's done the kidnapping.”   
Gregson sighed.   
“We've all made mistakes, haven't we?” he said.   
“Like the mistake you made by cheating on your wife?”   
Anger flashed across the detective's face for a moment, just enough that Sherlock could spot it, but then it disappeared.   
“You made a mistake, Sherlock. You can tell me, and I'll try to help you.”   
“No you won't. You'll send me for a psyche evaluation where they'll deem me fit for court then send me there for however long it takes for a jury full of people who already hate me to decide I'm guilty and send me to prison for something _I_ _didn't_ _do_.”   
“Fine,” Gregson said. “You don't wanna talk, that's fine. But I'm going to.”   
Sherlock prepared himself for the next grueling phase.  
  
When John woke in the morning in the fairly comfortable cot next to Jamie's bed, his brother was already awake, sitting up and biting his finger nails, eyes scanning the room like a frightened animal's. Jamie never used to bite his nails.   
“Hi,” John said softly, stretching. Jamie didn't look at him.   
“I'm thirsty,” he said.  
“I'll get you a glass of water.”   
He did, then helped Jamie drink it. Jamie's own hands were too weak to hold the glass up.   
“Thanks,” Jamie said. “That tastes so good. It's so. . .clean.”   
John nodded, deciding not to pry further into what kind of water he'd been drinking recently.   
Instead, he sat on the edge of Jamie's bed.  
“I was thinking of going to visit my friend today,” he said. “Would you be okay here?”   
Jamie looked up at him, his eyes huge and hollow, like an owls.   
“Is it the man they took away yesterday?”   
“Yes,” John admitted. “Sherlock Holmes.”   
Jamie's brow furrowed.   
“That wasn't Sher-Sherlock,” he said with difficulty.   
“That's his name,” John said, heart racing. If he could get Jamie to say this in front of Lestrade. . .   
“He looked... like...him, a... little bit,” Jamie confessed, still taking large pauses between his words, as if they were hard to conjure.   
“But it wasn't him?”   
“N-no.”   
John sighed in relief. As much faith as he had in Sherlock, his brother's words yesterday had shaken him.  
“Will you tell the detective man that, next time you see him?”   
Jamie nodded tiredly.   
“John?”   
“Hm?”   
“I don't wanna talk about this anymore.”   
John's heart broke a bit.   
“Okay. Just get some rest.”   
  
All Gregson was doing now was preying on exhaustion, and Sherlock knew it.   
He endured as the man monologued on what the crime may have looked like, morals, etc. He ignored this, just as well as he ignored his growing hunger, thirst, and dire want to sleep.   
Instead, he remained vigilant, and decided to do some quadratic formulas in his head to keep himself entertained.   
Hours passed, and it was 3 PM. Finally, Lestrade knocked on the door and entered. Sherlock sighed in relief.   
“Take a recess,” Lestrade said to Gregson. He looked at Sherlock. “You've got a visitor.”   
  
They had to keep Sherlock in handcuffs, but John hugged him anyway.   
“I'm glad you still like me,” Sherlock said wryly, immensely relieved to see a familiar face. “After all, they're accusing me of kidnapping your brother.”   
“I know you wouldn't do that,” John said. “Don't joke about it.”   
“Sorry.”   
John cleared his throat.   
“How's it been? Are they going to clear you soon?”  
Sherlock shook his head.   
“They're stubborn fools. They want to arrest someone quickly and get it done. I may. . .I may actually be taken to court.”   
The reality of that fully hit him as he said it. He may actually have to go to court to defend himself. He never wanted to go near that building again.  
John shook his head.   
“You won't. They'll clear you, they have to. Jamie said it wasn't you, he said you weren't the man who took him.”   
“That's the thing about these people, Watson,” Sherlock said dryly. “They don't actually care about justice.”   
  
  
  


 


	39. The Third Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this chapter's kinda fast moving because ya girl has NO PAtience and I'm very tired cause SURPRISE I forgot to take my meds this morning which sent ME into a bad bout of withdrawal and...ye. I'm just getting over it now. Rant over.

“Well, I do,” John said firmly. “And we're going to get you out of this. Do you still have that tape of Irene?”  
Sherlock nodded, picturing the exact desk drawer it was in. At least maybe that would give them a reason for him being at Ed's suicide. . .  
“I'll have to get Inspector Lestrade back to Jamie, so he can tell him it wasn't you,” John said. “Is there. . .anything else I can do?”   
“No,” Sherlock said with a wry smile. “I'm afraid we must let this play out as it will. The truth _will_ come out.”   
Gregson appeared in the doorway.   
“Times up.”   
Sherlock sent him a seething look, but nodded nonetheless. John looked on gravely as he followed the detective.   
  
  
“Inspector, _please_ , he's said it,” John pleaded, wringing his hands. The detective didn't look at him, still walking down the hall towards the interrogation room.   
“I'm sorry, but there's no way to prove you haven't influenced him to do that since we've been gone,” Lestrade said sympathetically.   
John ran a hand through his hair.   
“Sherlock wouldn't do this,” he insisted desperately. Lestrade looked at him from the corner of his eye as he stopped in front of the interrogation room door.   
“How well do you know Sherlock?” he asked. John started, unprepared for the question but sure of his answer.   
“Really well. He's my best friend.”   
Lestrade turned to look directly at him.   
“Is he really, John? Are you sure he didn't begin that friendship to deceive you?”   
John clenched his fists, his chest tight with anger. He wanted to scream that Sherlock was a good person, that they were _more_ than friends, that he loved him. But he didn't. He just stood in resignation, staring at the ground. Lestrade was not going to see reason. He remembered what Sherlock had said so many times, about them not caring about the truth, just getting the job over with. He'd had more faith in them than that. He _believed_ that Chief Walton had tried to find Jamie as hard as he could. He'd even believed Lestrade really cared. But it didn't seem now that he did.   
“You're a nice guy, John,” Lestrade said. “But sometimes, you're a bit too nice. Don't let people prey on that.”   
John didn't look at him.   
“I didn't,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes is innocent, and I'll prove it.”  
He walked away.   
  
Sherlock spent the remainder of the questioning sipping his water with his legs crossed and ignoring Gregson.   
At one point, Gregson allowed him a cigarette, which he was more than grateful for, since he'd been _dying_ for one since that morning.  
Eventually, Gregson told him to stay in there and went to convene with Lestrade before they came back in together.   
“I'm being accused, yes?” Sherlock said, the words calm on his tongue though they brought a monsoon of emotions.   
“Yes,” Lestrade said. He read the list of charges and explained the court date would be the 31 st, he had better get a lawyer.   
“I'll be representing myself.”   
Gregson and Lestrade both raised their eyebrows at that. They knew from experience that defending oneself almost always went poorly. But Sherlock knew he was the best person for the job.   
“Okay,” Lestrade said. “You'll have to undergo a psyche evaluation, probably on Saturday.”   
_Tomorrow.  
_ “Fine,” Sherlock growled.   
“Okay, that's all. You'll be held here for now.”   
Held at the county police station until his hearing, and probably throughout the trial, He huffed. They couldn't even bother sending him to the proper prison?   
  
“ _WHAT_?”   
“Don't worry yourself,” Sherlock reassured his rapidly panicking mother over the phone. “John and, hopefully Jamie, will both testify in my favor. It will be fine.”   
Even as he said the words, he didn't fully believe them. He understood the possibility he'd go to jail was very real, but he hated worrying all these people. Watson had enough to deal with without his boyfriend being falsely accused of his brother's kidnapping, and he'd _just_ ruined his mother's Christmas a few days ago.   
“Oh dear, I'm so sorry,” Mrs Holmes said tearfully. “This is just. . .you must be feeling dreadful.”  
“I'm all right,” Sherlock lied. “Everything will be fine, Mum, really.”  
He didn't believe himself.   
  
“Bloody hell,” Walton muttered, covering his face with his arm. The sight of Davie Adler rotting in a chair was not something he wanted to see at four in the morning, but here he was. The corpse was fresh despite the smell, the body stiff but not bloated. Blood was caked to his head and neck, and his face was unrecognizable. He'd clearly been shot at close range.   
“Did the daughter say if she knew the guy who did it?” Randolph asked, wincing at the corpse.   
“Yeah, said he said his name was James Moriarty. She went on a few dates with him. Then this happened.”   
Randolph nodded.   
“Hey, what's that?”   
There was a piece of paper by Davie Adler's feet.   
  
Sherlock felt very, very alone that night.   
Quick was gone, baled out, and he sat shivering in his cell by himself. He itched desperately for a cigarette, or worse yet, a needle.  
The need for cocaine was still ever present in his body, despite the fact that the worst symptoms were gone. He still craved it all the time, felt the need for it scratching every inch of his body and mind.   
But alone in that cell, he felt the need worse than ever. It consumed him until it was all he could think about. He groaned in frustration.   
_Think of something else. Something pleasant. Chemistry class. Concertos in D major. Watson._  
It was difficult, but he repeated it like a mantra in his head until it was enough to fall asleep.   
  
Walton knew he really should wait for the forensics guys to get on the scene, but he stepped forward anyway, to see that the note was turned face up. He could just make out the sentence on the ground:

_i'm coming for you next, chief_

 


	40. The Evaluation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, before you read: I have been through psychiatric evaluations before and this is roughly what my experience was like. I understand that it would most likely be slightly different in a criminal case, and if anyone has any information on that, please share.   
>  Also, I'm autistic and these are the symptoms my doctor sited when he diagnosed me. Sherlock being autistic/bipolar is just a personal headcanon of mine, I think it nails his issues.   
>  But, as always, I'm not an expert. Enjoy :)

_The attic. He was in the attic the whole time.  
_ The thought flouted around John's head like a bizarre phantom, making a deep uneasiness swell in his chest.   
His little brother had divulged next to nothing about his captivity as of yet, and John hoped that he would soon. Unanswered questions were pricking him like needles between blueprints of how to make their lives better again.   
Sherlock had also been accused, which meant another hurricane of things he needed to sort through. He'd have to prepare a testimony on his behalf. Oh God, what if Sherlock went to prison? What if he went to prison and got back on cocaine? What if—  
No. “What ifs” were no good. “What ifs” would not solve the problem.   
What John Watson needed was a lawyer.   
  
“How're you doing? Are you holding up okay?”   
Sherlock bit his lip. In truth, he wasn't. He felt horrid and could do nothing but pace about his cell, trying to think of a way out of his situation. At least Mrs Hudson had dropped off some books to entertain him—but he hadn't yet the stomach to sit down and read.   
“Yes,” he told John over the phone. “Yes, I'm doing fine. How's Jamie?”   
John sighed.   
“He's. . .okay. Getting stronger. But. . .he doesn't want to talk about what happen.”   
That could be expected of a traumatized child. But the more details Jamie divulged, the quicker new suspects could be brought in and his actual captor found.   
“He will,” Sherlock said. “Eventually.”   
John was silent for a moment.   
“Have that psyche evaluation today?” he said finally.  
“Yes,” Sherlock said bitterly. “I get to have a doctor come in and tell me some fantasy about having issues related to my childhood or whatever other fiction they come up with. Maybe a diagnoses.” Sherlock had never actually scene a psychiatrist since he was little. The one his mother had brought him to had given them a piece of paper with a list of diagnoses—autism, depression, anxiety, attention deficit disorder, possible personality disorder. Sherlock, only six at the time, had looked up at his mother with tears in his eyes after reading it and said, “There's something. . . .wrong with me?”   
After that, Mrs Holmes had crumpled the paper up and thrown it away, and they never visited the psychiatrist again.   
“Maybe they'll tell you something that will actually be helpful,” John suggested.   
“There's nothing wrong with me,” Sherlock said shortly.   
“I didn't say there was.”   
“But you thought it.”   
John paused.   
“I don't think there's anything wrong with you, Sherlock. Not at all. But sometimes, you torture yourself. The evaluation will go fine.”   
Sherlock nodded, though John couldn't see him.  
“I'll talk to you tomorrow.”   
“Okay. Bye, Sherlock.”   
“Goodbye, Watson.”  
  
The shrink even _looked_ like a shrink, with hair tied back in a painfully tight bun and big glasses and a notepad.   
The woman was older, maybe in her 50s, with long hands and skin that seemed to suck into the cavities of her face, giving the impression that her skin coated her like a popped balloon.   
She introduced herself as Dr Linda in friendly voice.   
_'Oh great. She's a first name one as well.'  
_ “It's good to meet you, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I'm here strictly on a professional basis, I don't know what you may or may not be involved in or what you're being charged with, so I have no bias.”   
A lie. She made biases the moment she walked in, as everyone does. She had biases about him based on such trivial things as his clothes and his voice and the shape of his face. Bias was always present, in every human being. Sherlock was fully aware of that.   
“Anything you say here will not be used in a court of law, unless you state you intend to hurt someone else or yourself. Any diagnoses, however, can be.”   
“I know,” Sherlock said, waving his hand. “I know how it works, just get on with it please.”   
“Okay. . .”   
She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.   
“Does mental illness run in your family?” she asked.   
“It runs in everyone's family. There's no family without a mentally ill member, is there?”   
Dr Linda blinked.   
“I suppose not, but any specific—“   
“I don't know what specifically. My father killed himself. I don't know why.” The doctor hastily wrote this down.   
“Did that. . .affect you a lot, as a child?”   
“I was sad, like any normal child would be,” Sherlock snapped. “It doesn't affect me anymore.”   
She jotted this down too.   
For an hour, the evaluation went on like this, with the doctor asking personal questions, and Sherlock replying with ice. Eventually, she said,   
“You seem to be exhibiting signs of autism and bipolar disorder.”   
Sherlock's eyes narrowed.   
“That's ridiculous. I don't have either of those.”   
“I beg to differ. You exhibit clear signs of autism, such as thinking in patterns, high IQ and low EQ , obsessive habits and routines, fixation on specific subjects, and difficulty relating to other people. With the bipolar, it seems you experience manic depression and long crashes.”   
Sherlock stared, unable to speak for several moments.   
“There's nothing _wrong_ with me,” he insisted.   
“That's my professional opinion, Mr Holmes. I will be turning that information over to Judge Johnson.”   
  
Sherlock kicked his cell wall.   
_Autism. Bipolar._ Was she out of her mind? He couldn't have autism, he had no developmental issues as a child.. . .well, except the physical ones. But that was irrelevant. And _bipolar_. He didn't get _depressed_. He didn't get _manic_. Sure, he sometimes got down in the dumps for a bit, or got a bit restless, but. . .  
He slumped down to his cot, pulling his knees to his chest. He thought about the kids who called him freak, about his cousin calling him weird, and all the things other people did that he couldn't, for the life of him, understand.   
Was something really wrong with him? Had those idiots at school really been right?  
He tried not to think about it, tried to think about John's voice telling him how amazing he was instead. He just hoped this wouldn't hurt his case.   
  


 


	41. The Drawing

Sherlock was allowed visitors today.   
Which meant he was allowed to sit in a small room handcuffed to a table and sit across from his visitors and talk in front of cameras and not touch them.   
Nonetheless, he would take what he could get to see John and his family. He even missed Mycroft a bit, as sour as it was, but he was away at Oxford now.   
His mother and Mrs Hudson came, and both tried to hug him.   
“No,” he said, stepping away and holding a hand up defensively. “I'm not allowed to touch anyone.”   
“Oh, they're treating you like some kind of criminal!” Mrs Hudson cried in despair as she sat down across from him.   
“Yes, they believe I am one,” Sherlock said dryly.   
“My poor boy,” Mrs Holmes lamented, looking close to tears.   
“I'm fine,” Sherlock said shortly. Mrs Holmes shook her head, and Mrs Hudson put a comforting hand on her shoulder.   
“This is just dreadful,” his mother sniffled. “I—I can hardly believe it. . .”  
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like it when people cried—he never knew what to do or why they were crying. If he talked, sometimes he just made it worse, even if he offered a solution.   
“Don't worry dear, everything will be fine,” Mrs Hudson assured him, misreading his look of confusion for distress. Sherlock nodded.   
“You be strong,” Mrs Holmes told him tearfully. “I'll call you tomorrow, okay?”   
“Okay Mum,” Sherlock said softly.   
The two left together, Mrs Holmes still sniffling and Mrs Hudson with an arm around her shoulder.   
  
“How're you doing this morning?” John asked Jamie gently, pushing his hair out of his eyes. The boy looked up at him tiredly.   
“A little better. I slept with no nightmares.”   
John's heart ached.   
“That's great,” he said softly. “Listen, a nice lady is going to come and talk to you today.”   
Jamie's brow scrunched.   
“Why?”  
“She's going to ask you questions about the person who kept you in the attic.”   
Jamie looked up at him with frightened eyes.   
“Will he come look for me?”   
“No, of course not!” John said, squeezing his hand. “You're safe now, Jamie, I promise.” Jamie nodded, trusting his older brother completely. “I have to go see my friend while you talk to her, but I'll be back as soon as you're done, okay?”   
Jamie nodded again.   
John hugged him, then he set out.   
  
He could walk to the station from the hospital, and it was biting cold out. He hugged his jacket close to him as he walked as quickly as he could.   
His leg had miraculously made almost a full recovery, only aching after vigorous exercise. But the bitter weather sent a sharp pain through it.   
Nonetheless, he made it to the station and to Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock looked...wrong.   
He was handcuffed to a table, and his eyes were sunken. His cheeks looked sallow even under the white lights in the room.   
John reached for him, but he shook his head.   
“Can't touch anyone,” he said. “Sorry.”   
John withdrew.   
“You look. . .awful,” he pointed out.   
Sherlock nodded.   
“I feel atrocious,” he said.   
“How'd the evaluation go?”   
Sherlock looked away, picking at the cuffs on his wrists.   
“The woman was an idiot. She said I have autism and bipolar.” He didn't meet John's eyes.   
Autism and bipolar? John didn't know a lot about mental disorders, but. . . .it didn't seem far fetched to him that Sherlock could have those. He definitely wasn't like most people.   
“And you don't think you do?” John said cautiously.   
“There's nothing wrong with me!” Sherlock snapped defensively. “There isn't! Just because I talk different sometimes and I don't understand certain things—“ his voice broke.   
“Hey. Sherlock.” John looked at him, wishing he could reach out and touch him. He looked close to tears. “Hey, it's all right. It's okay to have those things, it isn't your fault.”   
“I don't _want_ to have weakness,” Sherlock said, and the words came out in an unintentionally childish voice.   
John cracked a small smile.  
“Nobody does. But we all do, and that's fine. You don't have to be so ashamed of yourself all the time.”

It seemed like Sherlock reacted with this intense hatred and defense of himself whenever he encountered something he couldn't control. He acted as though he wouldn't go on a plane if he couldn't fly it.   
“I _hate_ it,” Sherlock hissed. “I hate all of this. I hate that I'm causing you and my family pain and I can't make it stop because _I can't think straight._ ”  
John hated seeing him like this. He looked miserable.   
“Sherlock, it's going to be fine,” John said quietly, unsure of how to comfort him. “It's not your fault that all this is happening.”   
Sherlock shook his head.   
“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “I didn't mean to—I'm sorry.”   
“It's all good. I don't blame you—this must be pretty stressful.”   
Sherlock nodded.   
“You got a. . . .a lawyer?” he said, looking at John. John smiled at the deduction.   
“Yes,” he said. “Can you figure out anything else about him?”   
“He's. . .from out of town. Middle aged?”   
John nodded, his mouth quirking upwards for a moment.   
“Amazing,” he said softly. “He's from Glasgow. My father had a connection a while back. . .I'm testifying in your favor, of course.”   
Sherlock smirked.   
“It would be cruel to come and visit me if you were condemning me, wouldn't it? I'm not getting a lawyer. I'm defending myself.”   
John didn't know anything about the court, but that didn't sound right. Sherlock probably knew what he was doing though.   
“I have to get back to the hospital before Jamie's questioning is over,” John said. “Hang in there, okay? I'll call you tomorrow.”   
Sherlock nodded, almost leaning in for a kiss before remembering the rule.   
“Love you,” he said instead, and the words didn't seem like enough even though they sent a rush to his chest.   
“Love you,” John replied with a warm smile, and they parted.   
  
“Can you draw me a picture of what he looked like?” asked Doctor Hailey Reuben. Jamie was already kneeling on the ground in front of the crayons on the table. He reluctantly picked up the black one.   
The lady talking to him seemed nice, but he didn't want to talk about what happened. At least with drawing, he didn't have to talk.   
He started on the drawing.   
It didn't take him long, because he hadn't stopped seeing it in his dreams since it happened. He saw it every time he closed his eyes. Sometimes, he saw it when they were open.  
Soon he was scribbling furiously, trying to get the image in his head out and transfer it to the paper. He felt such a deep swell of emotions while drawing that when he finally stopped and put the crayon down, he was shaking.   
Doctor Reuben reached for the drawing and held it up to examine it.   
Jamie Watson had drawn a monster. 

 


	42. The Monster

John stared at it.   
The picture Jamie had drawn had a humanoid form, but it was. . .not human.   
A black mass surrounded a darker silhouette vaguely man shaped, but too tall. The figure also had red eyes and too many fingers. It's arms gnarled like tree trunks as they stretched across the paper. It was an oddly unsettling image, like something you have a vague childhood memory of, perhaps from a nightmare.   
The drawing was also much more advanced than John would've expected of his six year old brother—Jamie's drawing skills had always been average for his age, but this image was much more detailed than anything he'd ever made before.   
It put a sick feeling in John's stomach.   
“You. . .saw this?” he asked is brother slowly.   
Jamie nodded, not looking at him.   
“He's gonna come looking for me John,” he whispered.   
  
Walton was, in all fairness, warned he should take extra precautions in protecting himself after the note was found.   
But he figured all he really needed was the trusty revolver on his belt and his own eyes.   
So he had no qualms about walking out of his trailer on a Sunday morning to smoke his cigar outside.   
It was foggy, of course, as the lake was so close by. The Chief watched the smoke curl into the air, joining the mist. The wind pinched his bare face.   
He liked it out here on quiet mornings. Maybe his home wasn't the best, but silent mornings like these made him like it infinitely more.   
He walked to the edge of the forest, breathing it in, admiring the ice dangling from the branches.   
He noticed something yellow in the snow.   
Already cursing his neighbor's dog, he stomped over to the spot to check it out.  
Across his lawn was a huge yellow smiley face.   
  
Sherlock's hearing was today, and John tried not to think about it. In all likelihood, it would go down just as Sherlock predicted. He'd be deemed fit to defend himself, the evidence would be looked at, and the judge would send the case to trial.   
Still, there was that bit of hope swirling in John's chest that _maybe_ , just _maybe_ , the case would be dismissed.   
He tried not to get his hopes up.   
Instead, he decided he'd go get something to cheer Jamie up. After all, he hadn't even gotten a Christmas present.   
  
Toy stores in Black County where all but nonexistent. Several places _carried_ toys, but there were no _toy_ _stores_.   
This was because any remnants of one that might have been were blown away by the fact that most people in Black County were on the lower side financially and didn't put money into anything extravagant or unnecessary.   
John was on Main Street, contemplating where exactly he should go, when he realized that Davie's had the “Open” sign on their door.   
He pushed the door open, triggering the little bell.   
But Davie Adler was no where in sight.   
Instead, beyond mountains of trinkets and clothing and junk, Irene was at the register.   
“Hi Irene,” John said. Irene looked. . .weird. A bit foggy, not as lively as usual.   
She looked up.   
“Oh. Hi John.”   
John's eyebrows furrowed.   
“I thought your dad worked Sundays,” he said, rifling through the pile of children's toys.   
“He's. . .he's died,” Irene said stiffly.   
John looked at her in shock.   
“Irene, that's terrible,” he said softly. “I'm so sorry. How did it. . .?”   
“Murdered,” she sniffled, not meeting his eyes. “Brought a boyfriend home, and he went psycho. He told me to leave and when I came back—“   
She stifled a sob.   
John went to her side, putting a hand on her shoulder uncertainly. He wasn't the best at comforting people. . . .   
“He shot him,” Irene managed finally. “No one knows why.”   
“That's horrible,” John said, feeling very genuinely sorry for her.   
“Left the shop to me,” she said, dabbing her eyes with her sleeve. John nodded, comforted by the fact that she at least had a source of income. She wiped away the rest of her tears and took a deep, shaky breath. “Sorry,” she said.   
“Don't be,” John said. “If there's anything I can do, anytime—“ Irene cut him off with a pat on the cheek.   
“Oh, I'll be fine,” she said with a sad smile. “Sherlock was right about you, bloody sweet you are.” John flushed.   
“Anything. I'm here.”   
Irene nodded silent for a moment as she gathered herself fully.   
“What're you looking for?” she asked finally. It took John a moment to remember.   
“Something for Jamie,” he said. “He—well, I suppose you've seen on the news, we've just found him, and he's having a hard time—“   
“Oh, I did see!” she said. “I'm so glad they found him alive. Poor thing.”  
John had never seen Irene this sympathetic before, but he supposed her fragile state had brought out a more vulnerable side of her.   
“That's all junk,” Irene said, waving to the pile of toys. “Let me show you something in the back.”   
  
Sherlock's ears felt full of water.   
He was expecting this, but suddenly he couldn't feel his hands and his suit felt suffocating and—  
“--trial date January 3d, beginning at 10 AM. Meeting adjorned.”   
  
It was beautiful.   
It must've been brand new—or at least hardly used. It was a shiny, bright red.   
A bicycle.   
Just Jamie's size, too.   
“Wow,” John said, smoothing the seat and admiration. “This is great. It looks brand new.”   
“Just got it in the other day,” Irene said. “Not even a scratch on it.”   
“How much?”   
Irene shook her head.   
“Kid's in the hospital, after. . .Just take it, on me.”   
John shook his head.   
“Irene, I couldn't—“  
“It would be fine, really.”   
John looked at the bicycle.   
“How about I pay you,” he said, “and if I ever need the money back, I'll ask you for it.”   
Irene thought about this for a few moments, then said,   
“Okay. We've got a deal.”   
They both knew John would never ask for the money back.   
  
  
  


 


	43. The Lawyer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annoyingly close to being accurate to Sherlock's birthday in real time, but...a few days behind.

Jamie's eyes lit up when John wheeled the bicycle into room 209.   
He sat up in his bed, suddenly looking brighter than John had seen him look since he'd been found.   
“I thought this might cheer you up,” John said with a smile at Jamie's face. He would've bought thousands of bicycles for that look alone.   
“Is it really mine?”   
“Yep. When you're all better and the snow melts, I'll teach you how to ride it. No training wheels.”   
The boys eyes gleamed.   
Jamie Watson would not full realize it until years later, but eventually, he would fully appreciate the fact that; though he didn't have a father to teach him how to ride a bike, he had a brother who would.

 

“Your voice is lighter. Has something good happened?”   
John's mouthed quirked up a bit. Sherlock could read him like a book, without even seeing him.   
“I got Jamie a bicycle. It just. . .it was nice to see him excited.”   
“Oh,” Sherlock said softly. He was quiet for a moment, probably, John thought, processing what that meant. Sherlock always needed a long time to think about and analyze his or other peoples' emotions. He did _try_ to understand, something that John appreciated. He never gave up on learning about other people.   
“Did it go. . .how you said it would?” John asked. Sherlock sighed.   
“Yes, exactly. The trial will start January 3d, that's hardly even time to prepare a defense. It's like they're trying to convict me as fast as they can. Of course, they wanted to try me as an adult as well. They even got away with that.”   
He'd turn eighteen just three days after the trial date, so it wasn't surprising.   
“They _aren't_ going to convict you,” John said firmly. “Sherlock, listen to me. Do _not_ start accepting that fate already.”   
“What else can I do?” Sherlock said sourly. “Watson, you are an ideal British jury. But you are just one person. I _must_ stay in tune with reality.”   
“In reality, you're innocent. I won't let them lock you up for something you didn't do.”   
“Watson— _John,_ please. If I do end up. . .” He paused. “If they do, you can't stop it. You understand that, don't you? That whatever happens isn't your fault.”   
John paused, taking a deep breath. If Sherlock was convicted, how could he _not_ blame himself? All the circumstantial “evidence” that was stacked against him was because of him.   
“It won't happen,” he said.   
  
J. R. Brahms was doing John a partial “favor” (a deep, deep discount for his services) because he happened to owe Hamish Watson a tremendous amount of money from an old gambling habit. And whether the man was dead or not, he figured he owed the Watson's something.   
The man was thin and short, with wispy, balding red hair a tremor in his hand (which also had the nails bitten off). He had too-big, inquisitive blue eyes framed by large black spectacles. John thought he looked a bit like a nervous cartoon character.   
“It's nice to meet you, Mr Watson,” Brahms said. “Your father. . .mentioned you.”  
John knew this was a lie, but ignored it. His father would never mention them outside the house. His friends were mostly unaware he had sons at all.  
“Erm, likewise, Mr Brahms.”  
“So, John, what is the goal you want to accomplish during this trial?”   
They'd already talked about this on the phone, but John supposed he hadn't paid close enough attention, because now he pulled out a proper notebook and pen.   
“To ensure Sherlock Holmes doesn't go to prison for a crime he didn't commit,” John said concisely. Brahms nodded.   
“Okay. The advice I'm going to give to you, and this is very crucial, John, is; _do not_ in anyway, indicate that you are benefitting from your relationship with Sherlock Holmes.”   
John's brow furrowed.   
“What do you mean?”   
“I mean that, whether you are or not, you don't mention if you're getting money or sex or anything of the like from him. Anything like that will immediately make you seem strongly biased to the jury.”   
“I-I'm not—“ John stammered. “We just—“   
“I don't care. In fact, the less you tell me about it, the better. You're friends with Sherlock. As far as the jury is concerned, this is because you genuinely find him to be a good person.”   
“That _is_ why we're friends,” John said.   
“Good. Just a warning. Now let's work on preparing your statements, then we'll get to work on Jamie.”  
  
 _Loudloudloudloudloudloud.  
_ The girl in the cell across from his was screaming and cursing, banging furiously at the wall. She was drunk, drunk and angry and had evidently just come back from a fight. Her knuckles were bleeding.   
“Can you _please_ be quiet,” Sherlock groaned, trying not to cover his ears. There were sirens going off in his head.   
_Tooloudtooloudtooloudtooloudtooloud._  
The girl ignored him, hitting the wall even harder, tears ruining the makeup she'd drenched her face with, long black nails being scraped away.   
Eventually, after what seemed like hours, an officer came and dragged her out because she was hurting herself on the wall.   
Sherlock curled up on his cot, relieved but shaking slightly.   
It had been a while since a noise had bother him that much.

 

He was found within a day.   
When he didn't show up for work the next morning, nor answer the phone, Donna sent out a patrolman to do a wellness check.   
Chief Walton had missed work plenty of times before, he'd even had his fair amount of fake sick routines. But he always called first.   
Walton's trailer was just close enough to the road to be visible, but still obstructed by trees enough that Officer Randolph didn't notice the blood right away.   
No, he noticed the blood when he pulled into the driveway, and he gleamed so bright and scarlet in contrast to the snow that it was disturbingly pretty.   
The rest of the scene wasn't.   
Randolph knew right away an ambulance was helpless, Walton had been dead for at least a day.   
He was stilling holding his cigar.   
  
  


 


	44. The Prosecution

“I don't wanna tell them what I saw.”   
“I know, Jamie, but. . .”  
John sighed, rubbing his forehead. They'd just gotten done talking to Brahms who had advised the to rehearse questions, even when he wasn't around.   
“But you need to, so they can catch the bad guy.”   
Jamie looked down, and John lifted his chin up.   
“Hey, look at me,” he said gently. Jamie lifted his eyes, swallowing hard. “I know it's hard. But I need you to listen to me and Mr. Brahms so we can get through this and get it over with, okay?”   
Jamie nodded reluctantly.   
  
They brought him in chains.   
Chains and a suit and shaking hands. He sat down alone, no attorney, and the guards stood aside, eyes still focused on him.   
The courtroom filled up with jurors, eyes glinting on him suspiciously. Some of them sent him disgusted looks, as if they'd already decided he was guilty.   
Judge Johnson sat in front of him, dark skinned and regal in his robes. The prosecution sat perpendicular to him, with nasty, snide looks on their faces, as if they had some secret weapon they were preparing to unleash.   
And then, he saw his mother and brother and Mrs Hudson come in, looking at him solemnly. Mrs Holmes had tears in her eyes, but she nodded to him encouragingly nonetheless. Mycroft, too, nodded grimly.   
Then John and Jamie were there, looking nervous and eager all at once. Jamie stuffed his face into his brother's side, hiding.   
The Judge brought everyone to order and briefly read the charges being brought against Sherlock—then had him swear on a Bible that he would be honest.   
“Would Detective Inspector Lestrade please come to the stand?”   
Lestrade rose, calmly and coolly walking to the stand.   
“Inspector, why have you arrested this man and brought these charges against him?”   
“I believe, through the evidence gathered, we have reason to believe that Sherlock Holmes captured and held captive James Watson for over three months,” Lestrade said, looking carefully at the jury.   
“Could you please present this evidence, Detective Inspector?”   
Lestrade did, calling Dr Linda up to explain Sherlock's mental state.   
He watched this coldly, trying to block it out of his ears.   
_Don't listen to it. You know you're innocent. Don't let them waver your confidence._  
For the next hour, Lestrade brought in his succession of official “evidence” which included the psychological profile of the offender, and two other key pieces of evidence.   
The bloody note, and the star witness.   
Lead forensic investigator and blood spatter expert Douglas J Trappings explained to the jury that the blood on the envelope was clearly smeared on, creating a swipe pattern characteristic of someone pushing and dragging a bloody object across the surface. He then told the jury that the DNA tests had come in.   
Sherlock froze.   
No one had told him the DNA results were back.   
Of course, it was impossible the envelope had his DNA on it. So why were they even here?   
“--blood which contains the DNA of one person, James Watson.”   
Sherlock clenched his fist in agitation. John looked down at Jamie's bandaged hand and rubbed the boy's shoulder.  
“Would witness James Hamish Watson please come to the stand?”   
John gave Jamie's shoulder a squeeze and whispered something to him before he shakily made his way to the stand.   
He looked far, far too small to be standing there in front of the prosecution's skeptical and glaring gaze.

Prosecutor Laura Halt began the questions.   
“Mr Watson, what day did your capture occur?”   
“O-October 8th, 19-1985,” Jamie said softly, as practiced.   
“Around what time did this even occur?”   
Jamie thought about it for a minute, swallowing.   
“After school,” he said finally.   
“Can you please describe the person who did this?”   
Jamie squeezed his eyes shut tight. Sherlock felt an uncommon pang of sympathy. He knew what it was like to be up there, too young and traumatized and afraid.   
“He-he had green eyes, like a snake, and he-he was tall. Dark, dark hair.”   
Halt nodded.   
“Did this person tell you their name?”   
“He—said, his name was Sherlock Holmes.”   
  
The jury looked excited and shocked by this, and, despite the fact that he knew it was coming, Sherlock's stomach dropped.   
“No further questions,” Halt said, turning away before the Judge could catch her smile. Judge Johnson took a moment to let the jury absorb that information before saying,   
“Would John Watson please come to the stand?”   
  
John felt like the world was on his shoulders. His little brother ran up to him and hugged him before sitting back in his chair, and he walked to the stand, feeling as if his shoes were full of water.   
He'd never been much for standing in front of people and talking—no matter how many rugby games he played in front of cheering crowds.   
But now, his words were more important than ever.   
Laura asked him to state his name and such, which he did. Then the questions began.   
“Mr Watson, what is the nature of your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?”   
John looked at Brahms, who nodded.  
“He's a close friend,” John said firmly.   
“And how did this friendship begin?”   
“He was my lab partner.”   
Halt paced as she spoke, pushing her well blow-dried bangs from her faces.   
“What would you say Mr Holmes is like in personality? How does he behave?”   
“He's kind,” John said, looking at Sherlock and thinking of the thousands of words he could use to describe him. “He cares about people, even when he doesn't understand them. And he's the smartest person I've ever met.”   
He caught Sherlock smile just a bit, but his face returned to somberness as the next question came;  
“Were you aware of Mr Holmes's addiction to cocaine?”   
This stirred quizzicle looks from the jurors, and an even more puzzled look from Mrs Holmes. Sherlock hung his head.   
“Yes,” John said, not deterred. “He stopped using shortly after I met him.”  
Halt nodded, knowing very well that she had done what she needed to: placed the word “drugs” into the jurors minds.   
“Mr Watson, did Mr Holmes mention the disappearance of your brother at any time?”   
“Yes,” John said. “We talked about it. He helped me look for him, he was at every search. We talked about how to find him.”   
“Can you recall anything specific he might have said?”   
John thought for a moment.   
“He said he wouldn't stop looking until he was found,” he said finally.  
“Anything else?”   
“Nothing I can recall.”   
Halt asked several more questions, more dull this time. Where he was on such dates and if Sherlock was with him, etc. Finally, she said,   
“No further questions.”   
Laura Halt found her seat as Judge Johnson said,   
“Would the Defendant please come to the stand.”   
It was time for Sherlock's testimony.

 


	45. The Glass Ceiling Breaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: PANIC ATTACKS  
>  This panic attack is based off of panic attacks I, a person with autism, agoraphobia, and chronic depression have experienced. Panic attacks vary from person to person, so this one may not look like yours.

It didn't hit him until he moved to walk to the stand.   
First he _smelled_ it, thick in the air. Wood polish and mold and dust, and it hurt so bad he nearly gagged.   
But then he could hear it too—in the smooth padding of the floorboards as he walked and the excited whispers and awkward shuffling of others in the room.   
He could even feel it—all those eyes on him, watching, judging. The stuffiness of the small room, over-crowded with oxygen. They really should open a window somewhere.   
He swallowed hard.   
_Just have to make it to the stand. No reason to be frightened. Don't be stupid, Sherlock. We aren't stupid.  
_ He made it to the stand if not a bit shakily, and turned to face the jury. He involuntarily bit his lip, and he didn't noticed until he tasted blood in surprise. He _never_ had involuntary body language in a serious situations.   
“Please state your name for the record,” Judge Johnson said.  
“Sherlock William Holmes.”   
Laura Halt looked at him like python would look at its prey—examining him up and down with predatory eyes, determining how best to suffocate him.   
“Mr Holmes, what do you make of the allegations brought against you?” she asked,   
“I—deny them,” Sherlock said stiffly. The room seemed to be getting smaller.  
“Hmm. And how often, would you say, you are at the Watson house?”   
“Almost every—day,” Sherlock managed. His words were becoming robotic. God, this hadn't happened in ages. Please don't let it happen now.   
“And is it true that you were called as a witness to a homicide trial in 1983?”   
His stomach swayed. _1983\. 1983. 1983. Victor. Victor. Victor. Wood polish. Victor. Floorboards.  
_ “ _Yes_ ,” he said in an achingly small voice.   
“Sorry, what was that?”   
“ _Yes_ ,” he said. “My—my friend—he was killed—he was killed—“   
The jury was starting to look confused. Even Halt seemed to be a bit stumped. John was looking at him in concern. He tried to focus on John's eyes, but his vision started to tunnel. He felt woozy.   
“Mr Holmes, are you well?” Halt said.   
“I—I—“ He couldn't slow down his breathing. His pulse raced like a vicious engine. The room was spinning  
_Make it through.  
Victor?   
John.   
Floorboards.   
Dust.   
Eyes.   
_He collapsed.   
  
The rest of the memory was foggy.   
He vaguely remembered hands grasping at him, telling someone he'd be fine, and seeing John's face.   
He didn't know which parts were real.   
But when he came to, he was back in the _goddamned_ _hospital_ and it made him sick to wake up there.   
“You've done terribly, Sherlock.”   
_Mycroft_.   
“What're you doing here?” Sherlock growled groggily.   
“You collapsed on the stand. I thought it would be fitting to wait until you awoke to give you the advice you need to move forward.   
Sherlock rubbed his aching temple and blinked heavily until he could see his brother.   
“They'll deem me unfit to represent myself,” he said.   
“Indeed they will,” Mycroft agreed. “Which is why I'm going to be representing you.”   
Sherlock sat up, but immediately went back down when it caused him dizziness.   
“ _No_.”   
“It's your best chance, Sherlock, and you know it.”   
He did. At heart, he knew his brother was smarter than him and that he was right. But he didn't have to like it.   
“Just think about it,” Mycroft said softly.   
“What—what happened to me?” Sherlock said. “Am I sick?”   
“What happened was you had a panic attack.”   
Right. All the signs were there, he'd had them before. Emotions and sense spiraling so out of control his functioning became difficult  
“You'll be out of here this afternoon,” Mycroft said. “They'll set a new date to continue, probably the 6 th. Feel better.”   
He strode out of the room.   
  
Sherlock was planning on going to sleep and leaving all his problems to Mycroft when someone else opened the door.   
Watson.   
He walked over to the bed, blue eyes awake with concern, yet still shadowed from the long week. He'd lost another two pounds.   
“Hey,” he said softly, lest Sherlock had a headache.   
Sherlock tried not to bury his face in his pillow, red with humiliation at the realization that not only Watson, but an entire courtroom, had witnessed his breakdown.   
“I've been an utter idiot,” he said as John sat next to him. “I'm sorry you had to see that.”   
“You haven't been an idiot,” John said, brushing the hair away from his face.   
“I have. And you did so excellent, John. You had poise and brevity and everything that jury needed to believe you. But I ruined it.”   
“You didn't. Everything's going to be fine, okay? It's going to be _fine_.”   
There was an unexpected harshness in John's voice he hadn't anticipated.   
“I didn't mean—“  
“I know you didn't _mean_ it, Sherlock. Could you please stop apologizing for one _bloody_ minute? I've had a long _fucking_ week and now this—” John's neck was reddening, his hands were twitching. He was growing agitated.   
“John—“   
John sighed heavily, putting his head in his hands for a moment and breathing deeply. Sherlock didn't say anything, afraid whatever he did would just make John more angry. Why was John angry? Was he angry at him, or something else? Not knowing frightened him.  
“I'm sorry, Sherlock,” John said finally, not lifting his face to look at him. “It's been a long week and when you collapsed I got _scared_ —“   
“It's all right,” Sherlock said, reaching for him. “John?”   
A terrible, guttural sob shook John's body as Sherlock pulled him in.   
“Sorry,” he murmured into Sherlock's shoulder. “Sorry, sorry—“   
“Hush.”   
They stayed like that for a while while. John desperately tried to hold back his sobs, but it made it worse when he gasped for breath, so he surrendered to it and let them wash over him.   
“I hate this,” he choked as the sobs started quieting. “I hate this so much. I just want to go home.”   
“I know. Me too.”   
They stayed like that until the tears were gone and the whispers released. 

 


	46. The Defense

The next few days were rough for John.  
The day after the disastrous trial was his birthday, only a week earlier than Sherlock's. Eighteen. It was a big one, people had told him before, but it didn't feel very important right now. If his life was normal—if _he_ was normal, maybe he would've spent it going to have his first legal drink with his dad.   
But he'd never drink—not as long as he lived, not if there was even a _slight_ chance he'd become like his father was.   
Instead, he spent it with Jamie in the hospital, talking about all the things they'd do when he got better. Go to Templeton Park and teach him how to ride his bike and go to the library.   
Sherlock called to wish him a happy birthday, even though he couldn't remember _telling_ him when his birthday was. He just smiled and didn't ask how he knew.   
They didn't talk about the night before. Both of them had been under such tremendous stress and pressure these passed weeks—these passed _months_ , really, that it was no surprise they broke down. John hadn't even truly realized how badly he'd wanted to get it out until he did. He'd never been particularly free and open with his emotions—he'd learned from a young age how to carefully tuck them away so that no one else saw.   
He could remember his father, so vividly telling him, _“You going to cry, John? Thought I had a son, not a daughter”_ as John cowered, blocking his face from the blows.   
_“You're a fucking disappointment. You'll never learn, will you?”  
  
_ It wasn't until Sunday that he read the paper.   
It was front page news.   
There was Sherlock, lying on the ground. The headline read:   
TEENAGE DEFENDANT PULLS SHOCKING STUNT AT TRIAL  
John crumpled it up and threw it away.   
_Stunt. Stunt.  
_ How dare they? A _stunt_. What idiots.   
  
John, having thrown the paper away, neglected to see the article regarding Chief Walton's passing.   
  
The second hearing, according to Sherlock, went as expected, set for the 10th. John was fascinated with how _Mycroft_ , of all people, would build a defense. He was confident in him, though. If there was one person as smart as Sherlock, it was Mycroft.   
Sherlock _would_ be found innocent.   
  
The 9 th came and Sherlock whispered himself a happy birthday in his cell.   
  
“Moran, isn't the justice system just fascinating?”  
Moran pushed his cuticles back with a knife, not looking at Moriarty.   
“I guess so, boss,” he said. “I don't really know much 'bout it.”   
Moriarty looked at him inquistively.   
“I'll tell you one thing about it,” Moriarty said. “It makes it easy to send an innocent man to his death.”  
  
“In June of 1983, a friend of Mr Holmes's by the name of Victor Trevor was found brutally murdered in a dumpster. Mr Holmes was questioned in this homicide but no killer was ever convicted. Mr Holmes also regularly appears at crime scenes and has a macabre fascination with criminal detection.” Laura Halt faced the jury. “Almost as if he needed to know how to cover something up.”   
Sherlock could hear death with every click of her heals on the floor. Every venomous look.   
“Ladies and gentleman of the jury, let me ask you this: what type of person would commit this crime? What kind of lonely, isolated, sadistic individual would torture an innocent child like this? Perhaps take it unto yourselves to look at Sherlock Holmes—the aggression, addiction, and mental disturbance he has clearly shown, and add it up as you will.”   
She faced the judge.   
“The prosecution rests,” she declared.   
Judge Johnson pushed his small spectacles to the bridge of his nose and looked down at the courtroom. “The defense has the floor,” he said.   
Mycroft stood.  
  
“Well Miss Halt, you've shown a staggering amount of ignorance today,” he said as he faced the room. “If you “added this up” as you said, and somehow came to the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes is anything other than completely innocent, I'm afraid you may want to learn better math.”   
This earned him a couple of nervous chuckles.  
“You see, Miss Halt, when you say, for example, that Sherlock Holmes appears “regularly at crime scenes” I must assume you are mentioning the one isolated occasion on which he did.”   
Mycroft pulled a tape from his pocket and promptly played it for the jury. It was the tape of Sherlock asking questions to Irene.   
_“Except. . .well, there was Farmer Ed. . .”  
_ Mycroft stopped the tape.   
“He was doing a bit of a wellness check on Mr Kranski,” he said. “As he hadn't been at Davie's on Sunday as he usually was. Upon arriving, he found the man had, unfortunately been dead for a few days. He called the authorities immediately, who ruled it a suicide. What had happened was an accident.”   
He put the tape back in his jacket and met Sherlock's eyes a moment, then looked back at Halt.   
“Yes, Sherlock Holmes was questioned by police during the investigation following his friend's tragic death, but was ruled out as a suspect immediately because of an airtight alibi. Suggesting to the jury that he was somehow involved after the police decided otherwise is nothing more than poor taste.”  
He had the jury's utmost attention now—he was like some kind of story-teller. They were latching onto his every word.   
“You see, Miss Halt, the reason why you have had to _lie_ and _embellish_ in your prosecution is because there was never, and will never be, any evidence against Sherlock Holmes in this case. They say one is innocent until proven guilty, but he has been treated as nothing but guilty since his initial arrest, made the very _day_ James Watson was found. No other suspects were ever looked at or considered. Instead, it seems he is guilty until proven innocent. Luckily, I have that proof of his innocence right here.”   
He pulled out a document, and the jury could see that it was from Black County High.   
“Sherlock Holmes could not have kidnapped James Watson,” Mycroft said, “Because he was at school, miles away, when it happened.”   
  
  
  
  
  


 


	47. The Ruling

It was the shortest defense ever made in Black County, and one of the shortest in the country.   
Though Laura Halt had gone on some hours, Mycroft talked only for half an hour, and as soon as he showed the jury definitive proof that Sherlock had been at school, the defense rested.   
The jury then left the room to make a decision.   
  


Sherlock sat anxiously.   
Mycroft was beside him, his mum, Mrs Hudson, John, and Jamie all behind him, out of talking distance.   
His brother's defense, though extremely swift, had clearly impacted the jury. He just hoped it was enough.   
What would he do if it wasn't? What kind of sentence would they give him? 50 years? Life? He tried not to think about it, but his stomach still rolled. Being in this room didn't help, either. This room felt haunted to him—haunted with bad memories and worse feelings.   
“You're going to be acquitted,” Mycroft said confidently beside him. Sherlock's hands shook. He hid them beneath the table.   
“People don't always see reason, Mycroft,” he said quietly. “Many innocent people go to prison.”   
“You won't.”  
Mycroft's voice was short, almost annoyed. It was a habitual tone for him to take to his brother.   
Sherlock sat in silence for a moment. Then, wistfully, he said,   
“I miss my violin.”   
  
It took only six hours for the jury to come to a conclusion.  
Judge Johnson sat back in his chair, looking right at Sherlock. Sherlock felt his stomach drop.   
_Innocent. Innocent. Please. Please.  
_ “The jury has come to a decision,” Johnson said. “The jury finds Sherlock William Holmes, NOT GUILTY.”   
The mallot went down on the stand.   
  
Judge Johnson continued to speak, but Sherlock was too relieved to hear. Acquitted. He was being Acquitted. He was innocent. He was being released from police custody.   
Once the Judge was done speaking, the trial was over and officers took him outside and had no choice but to un-cuff him and return all the person items he'd had on at the time of his arrest. He felt like he was breathing new air.   
His mother reached him first, crushing him in hug, crying out a blur of jumbled words:   
_“Thank God, my baby. Oh, you've turned eighteen, haven't you? Oh, my baby. I was so afraid. Thank goodness.”  
_ He patted her on the back.  
“I'm fine, Mum,” he said awkwardly. __  
Mrs Hudson got to him next, a bit more civil but still affectionate in her hug.

“I knew your brother would get you out, you boys are so smart. I'm so proud.”   
Mycroft gave him a pat on the back.   
“Thank you,” Sherlock told him quietly. Mycroft nodded, deciding not to milk it.   
John practically jumped into his arms to kiss him, sending him stumbling back a step before wrapping his arms around him.   
God, he'd missed this.  
“Miss me?” Sherlock laughed as they pulled apart. John grinned.   
“Of course. Thank God this is over, I was worried for a moment—“ He cut off, realizing that Jamie was clinging to his leg.   
Sherlock bent down.   
“Hello, I don't believe we've met,” he said, sticking out his hand. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”   
Jamie tentatively shook his hand, looking shy.   
“You're not the same Sherlock Holmes I met,” he said nervously. Sherlock managed a smile.   
“No, I'm not.”   
“Why'd you kiss my brother?”   
That made all of them chuckle a bit, and John blushed.  
“I may have forgotten to explain to him that we're—er—“ He looked down at Jamie. “I'll explain it. . .later.”   
Sherlock was confused for a moment at why he couldn't just tell Jamie right there that they were dating, but then realized the little boy had probably never even heard of two people of the same sex in romantic relationships, much less seen it.   
“Why don't we all go out for a celebratory dinner?” Mrs Holmes suggested. “My treat. You and Jamie as well, John.”   
“Thank you, but I actually need to get him back to a doctor,” John said, ruffling Jamie's hair a bit. Jamie was well enough to be at court, but still under close watch by doctors. John was trying not to think of the medical bills that were coming. “I'll call you tonight?” he asked Sherlock.   
Sherlock nodded.   
This time when he left the courthouse, he left free.   
  
Dinner was fun, but Sherlock was relieved when they got home.   
He immediately when up to his room and threw himself onto his bed, taking in the texture and smell of his blankets, familiar and lulling.   
The next thing he did was take out his violin and play.   
Every emotion he'd felt for the past two weeks spilled onto the strings as he improvised, every note an ode to a different feeling.   
What he played started melancholy and sad, then went fast with a screeching anxiety and frustration, and finally ended with the slow, soaring sound of relief. Wide flourishes and major notes finished his practicing.   
He opened the window and lit a cigarette while he talked to Watson. It was different talking to him today than it had been yesterday. They could talk of other things than the trial, of lighter things. They could even laugh a bit.   
When they finally did hang up, Sherlock sat back on his bed, cigarette long extinguished, breathing in the clean air coming through the window. The chilliness flowing through gave him goose flesh, but it was still pleasant, so he sat like that ruminating for a while.   
He knew that there were still things to be done, that this was not nearly over. He knew that someone had hurt Jamie Watson, that strange things were happening in Black County, and he intended to find out who and why.  
But at that very moment, he had a victory, so he soaked in it.   
  


 


	48. The Summer Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating for a couple days, I was VERY exhausted lol.

As spring came, the Black County PD replaced Robert Walton with Randolph Liones for Chief. The Chief's murder and the likely connected murder of David Adler replaced James Watson's kidnapping as the lead investigations of the Scotland Yard.   
In the eyes of the public, _two_ murders in a month was startlingly. In the eyes of Sherlock, _four_ murders in a month was startling.   
The deaths of Walton, Kranski, Adler, and Baleman were, beyond a reasonable doubt, connected. Sherlock suspected other things, like the smiley faces (found both at Adler and Walton's deaths) and Jamie's disappearance, were also connected.   
The county enforced a new curfew of 10pm, and children under 13 had to be escorted home from school by an adult.   
Whoever, or _whatever_ was doing this was holding the town captive.   
  
Sherlock and John both graduated.   
They just barely scraped by, but they worked tirelessly for it. John ended up deciding not to continue rugby for the remainder of the year.   
Instead, once he graduated, he got a full time at the Stop Mart. It paid well enough to support himself and his brother, even had health insurance.   
When Jamie moved back in, John covered up the entrance to the attic by nailing a quilt over it.   
John didn't let Jamie play outside alone, or go anywhere alone, really. He even came with him to work and sat reading comics behind the counter until he finished.   
Sherlock, meanwhile, was applying to a collage just half an hour away from town.   
“I'll live at home,” he explained.   
“What will you major in?”   
“Crime Science. I wish. . .”   
“Yes?”   
“I wish you could come with me.”   
John did to, but that was impossible. Even if he somehow managed a scholarship, he couldn't support Jamie without working full time.   
“You'll be a great doctor someday,” Sherlock told him one Sunday. John laughed breezily.  
“I doubt I'll be a doctor now.”   
Sherlock looked at him as if he'd suggested he'd been abducted by aliens.   
“Of course you will! It may not seem so now, but Watson, you'll go to school. Jamie will go to secondary and you'll go to classes during the day and work at night, and it will work, it will. You can make anything work.”   
John was surprised by Sherlock's confidence in him. But maybe Sherlock was right.   
Maybe in a couple years, when Jamie was in secondary school, he could try. Maybe someday.   
It was a nice thought, one he kept tucked away for rainy evenings.   
  
Summers had always bored Sherlock.  
He tended to fall into a lull about a week in, then slip slowly into a state of manic depression. Now, of course, things were different.   
He no longer had cocaine—something he'd used largely as a form of entertainment. But that also meant he was physically feeling much better than usual. Sometimes he forgot to eat but someone would eventually notice and prompt him to do so. He went to fights often.  
The first fight he'd gone to that summer, he'd gotten his arse kicked by a man with two hundred pounds and at least ten more years experience than him.   
Not wanting to upset his mother, he'd gone over to the Watson's instead, where John bandaged him up, disgruntled.  
  
“You love self destruction, don't you?” he'd scolded, dabbing at a scrape on Sherlock's neck.   
“I'm a bit of a masochist, I think,” Sherlock admitted with a smirk. “But so are you.”   
There was no denying that.   
So John went to his next match, and he even bet ten quid on him. It ended up being a wise investment, because Sherlock won three times and left the champion.   
It was something to do on a Friday night, but his bones ached after. 

John had carefully explained to Jamie a while ago that he and Sherlock were in a romantic relationship. He'd expected Jamie to have more questions, but at the end of his speech, the little boy just said:   
“Oooh. Okay.”   
And didn't mention it again.   
In fact, Jamie took a liking to Sherlock. Sometimes when they saw each other, Sherlock would give him a subject to learn about, and if he could answer questions on that subject next time they saw one another, Sherlock would give him money for the arcade. It was a good arrangement.   
  
In the early summer of what was now 1986, it seemed sometimes that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were truly living a regular, domestic teen life. They would drive around and talk, or hang out and listen to the radio, or snog on the sofa.   
But then something would happen that would wake them out of it—a smiley face on the pavement, or a new statement from the Yard, or a haunted look in Jamie's eyes.   
Then they were sharply snapped out of their fantasy.   
But they were adjusting to this new life—one without as much fear or persecution, one without as much doubt but still infinitely more secrets.   
And secrets in Black County were just going to keep unraveling. 

 

James Moriarty knew how to be caught.   
He also knew how not to be caught.   
Those first two murders, that old farmer and that deputy, those were tests. Tests to see if this town's law enforcement had gotten any better than it had last time he'd been there.   
It hadn't. But someone else had.   
Sherlock Holmes was young and clever. Sherlock Holmes was the kind of man who could catch Moriarty when he wanted to be caught, maybe even catch him when he didn't want to be.   
So he'd placed those two, very personal, very bold murders in front of the Yard, and they were failing.   
But Moriarty had hopes that Sherlock Holmes would not.

 


	49. The Second Photograph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References references easter eggs references

Superstition ran in the Baskerville family.  
Charlie Baskerville, Henry's father, claimed a phantom haunted their home on Devon Road, just as his father before him.   
Henry used to believe their stories as a child—he believed in the big black dog that Charlie claimed sometimes walked up and down the staircase, or prowled by the treeline.   
He believed the hound caused bad weather and small misfortunes, and in his younger years, he often found it an excellent tool for getting out of trouble. Whatever wrongdoing he did, up until he was thirteen, was somehow the ghost's fault. Sometimes, it even worked.   
But now, Henry was no longer a child. He was seventeen, and he didn't believe in ghosts like his father.   
Not until that night.   
  
  
“--marks the third murder in the county this year,” Lestrade said grimly to the cameras. “It seems we have a serial killer on our hands. The best thing to do is to stay in doors at night, lock your doors, and try to avoid going anywhere alone. We are doing our best to investigate this problem. If you have any information at all, please call us.”   
Sherlock shook his head at the television, turning it off.   
“Charles Baskerville,” he muttered. “I've heard that name, somewhere—“   
“Henry's dad, right?” John said. “Henry Baskerville. Scrawny kid, with the big glasses?”   
“Oh right,” Sherlock mused, tucking his legs beneath him. “The one who used to blame curses on bad grades and missing pencils?”  
“That's the one,” John chuckled. Henry Baskerville had been a sort of funny kid, but John had always felt sympathy for him. It couldn't be easy to live in a house full of people who legitimately believed a ghost pet was haunting them.   
“His father was a lunatic,” Sherlock said. “I wouldn't be surprised to find he had enemies.”   
“C'mon, it has to be the same guy.”   
“Maybe. But he didn't leave a signature this time.”   
John quirked his head.   
“What's a signature?”   
“Something a killer—particularly serial killers, use to ID their crimes.” Sherlock sat up straight, his eyes glinting with inquisitive passion. “Serial killers are easy to profile, because they tend to fit a very particular group. Loner, male, unmarried, no children, intelligent. And they love torturing authorities and baffling the public. _That's_ why they leave the signatures.”  
“Like how Jack the Ripper sent the notes?”   
“Exactly. They do it differently, try to be unique. In this case, our yellow smiley face has yet to appear.” He waved his hand vaguely at the telly.   
John looked at him skeptically.   
“Doesn't mean it wasn't him.”   
“No, it doesn't. Still, it's something to note.”   
They talked of it no more.   
  
“I think it's time we give our young detective a scent to follow,” Moriarty said. I'm getting awfully bored with the Yard's poor attempts.”   
“Whatever you think is best, Boss.”   
“Good man. Deliver this to 221b Baker Street for me.”

 

“Sherlock, post for you, dear!” Mrs Holmes called.   
Sherlock leapt from the sofa, hoping that maybe the school had gotten back to him. But the envelope said otherwise.   
The paper of both the note and envelope was of the same make, a sleek card stock that certainly wasn't produced here.   
But the ink was of the stationary types put out at hotels. In fact, this pen had evidently been running dry, because Sherlock could see where the writer had gone back and filled in spaces where the ink had stopped.   
The handwriting was elegant but with no capital letters or punctuation, and Sherlock's immediate thought at all of this was that the person was a male foreigner.  
He finally turned his attention to the content itself.   
The envelope had no return address. When he opened it up, he found a note and picture inside.  
The picture was of him.   
It was a picture of him he'd never seen before, taken right outside his house.   
The note read:   
  


_the woods_  
tonight  
midnight  
come out and play sherlock 

 

 

“Call the police,” Watson said firmly, arms folded indignantly.   
“What are they going to do?” Sherlock scoffed. “Tell me to stay home and ignore it?”   
“Sherlock, this is a threat. Someone is _watching_ you.”   
“He might be the killer! Look at the handwriting, the writing style. Identical to the note sent to the Chief all those months ago. This could be it.”   
“Yes, he _might_ _be_ _the_ _killer_ ,” John echoed. “Which means, he might be _trying_ _to_ _kill_ _you_.”   
“Perhaps. But whatever happens will be awfully interesting.”   
John sighed.   
Sherlock talked of this as if speculating going to a party on a Friday night. His own safety seemed to go completely out of his mind, as if it was trivial in comparison to his curiosity.   
“Fine,” John said. “Fine. But I'm coming with you.”   
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed.   
“Absolutely not.”   
“Yes, I am. Otherwise, I'll go straight to the police and report you.” He folded his arms.   
Sherlock sighed.   
“Are you sure you want to—“   
“If you go, I go.”   
Sherlock smiled just slightly.   
“All right. Do you still have your father's service revolver?”   
“In the sock drawer.”   
“And Jamie?”   
“I'll ask Mary to babysit, she mentioned last week she needed some cash, I think.”   
“Okay, Watson. Let's try to catch a killer, then.”   
  
Mary did, indeed, want some petty cash that week for a royal blue blouse she had her eye on, so she took the job immediately.   
Jamie hadn't met Mary before, but she had kind eyes and a soft demeanor, so he liked her straight away.   
“You'll be all right while I'm gone?” John said, kneeling in front of him. Jamie nodded.   
“I'll probably be back late, so Mary will have to put you to bed, all right?”   
Again, Jamie nodded.  
John squeezed his shoulder.   
“Okay. I'll see you in the morning.”   
He hugged his brother, something he didn't really used to do before but had taken to since his return.   
Then he bid them both goodbye, patted the gun on his belt, and followed Sherlock out the door.

 


	50. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating, this week has been hard for me. But I finally got around to it so here is a *slightly* longer than normal chapter *slightly* earlier than I usually post.

Generally speaking, John liked excitement.   
Even _bad_ excitement was still excitement all the same. Sometimes it bordered on anxiety, sometimes he could feel the pit of his stomach knotted with anticipation—but nothing felt better than that sweet feeling of doing something that frightened him.   
Maybe he was used to it, because really, a lot of things frightened him.   
Sherlock was the perfect outlet for the adrenaline he craved—constantly going about and being reckless and doing whatever he pleased.   
John had to hold him back, sometimes, but sometimes he _had_ to go along with it, it was so hard to say no to him. . .  
In this case, he knew they were about to take a probably unnecessary risk. They were about to meet a potentially dangerous stranger who possibly viewed them as his next victims. The smart thing to do would be to alert the police of the meeting place so they could take care of him.   
But the smart choices were sometimes boring.

 

The edge of the forest looked daunting ahead of them.   
Deep and thick, able to swallow them whole. . .  
“Where did he say to meet?” John asked, feeling the anticipation building in his system as they walked quietly and cautiously.   
“He just said “the woods”,” Sherlock replied. His eyes were alight with fervor, but he still looked a bit wary. John knew he hated this place, avoided it at all costs. He didn't know why, and neither did Sherlock.   
Though they were walking softly, they trampled several things in their wake. Something one of them had stepped on let out a foul odor.   
Sherlock covered his face with his arm.   
“God, what's that?” John groaned, following suit. Sherlock just shook his head and they continued on. They came to a clearing where John heard a twig snap.   
They both froze, John's hand resting on his gun.   
“Who's there?” Sherlock called.   
“Glad you could make it.”   
A shiver went down John's spine.   
The voice sounded disembodied, like it was echoing somewhere far away.   
“Who are you?” Sherlock said, voice still firm, but a bit smaller. “Why'd you send for me?”   
“The name is James Moriarty.”   
John's hand twitched at his revolver as he saw the silhouette of a man appear in front of them. He couldn't make out any of the man's features, even in the moon light.   
“The one who killed Davie Adler?”   
“Just so.”   
The figure didn't move. John was becoming nauseated now. Something about even _looking_ at the man made his stomach turn and his head spin.   
“I've killed other people, too,” the man called Moriarty said. Sherlock shifted on both of his feet, trying not to look anxious.   
“Who?”   
“A lot of people.”   
The man started walking, and both John and Sherlock tensed up. John drew the gun, but didn't cock it. Sherlock put a hand on his arm.   
“I killed those children, all those years ago. Those were my first kills.”   
John felt a stinging chill hit him. Cold sweats were dripping down his face.  
“Children,” Sherlock murmured. “The children who drowned?”   
“Mmhm. I was 9 years old, my first time killing. Felt _wonderful_ , finally getting those people off my back. No one stole my lunch anymore.”   
The man chuckled, and again it seemed to boom through the forest.   
Sherlock gave a nod to John, then looked down at his pocket. John understood and reached into Sherlock's back pocket slowly. He felt what seemed to be a tape recorder. He turned it on.   
“What were their names?” Sherlock asked  
“Oh, I don't remember. It was a long time ago.” The man stopped his pacing. “Have you ever killed someone, Sherlock?”   
Sherlock shuddered and blinked hard, as if fighting off a fever.   
“No,” he said. “How do you know who I am? How did you get those photos of me?”  
“I think you're a clever boy, Sherlock.”   
“I don't like this,” John hissed. “This feels. . .wrong. We need to get out of here.”   
“Just a bit longer,” Sherlock said through his teeth.   
“Who else have you killed?”   
“Oh, many people. But I don't like doing the dirty work myself, of course. I have a man for that.”   
Why was he telling them this? John had a terrible feeling deep in his gut that something awful was about to happen. He could feel the man grinning in the dark, and he hated it.   
“What's his name?” Sherlock asked.  
“I don't think you really need to know. I think you know that this isn't a confession of guilt, Sherlock.”   
Sherlock shifted, and John could see the gears in his mind struggling to turn, struggling to reach a conclusion about what to do next.   
“So you're going to kill me, then?”   
Sherlock's voice was getting smaller, higher.   
“Not yet. First I want you to see me.”   
The man stepped into the light, John cocked his pistol, and the face of a monster appeared.   
  
  
_Drugged_ _drugged_ _drugged_ , was the only word in Sherlock's brain as he struggled to wake himself up.   
Even half unconscious, he knew it to be the only logical explanation.   
The questions regarding this were as follows:   
  
_Why_  
Who   
What   
When   
Where

 

 _Why_ had someone drugged them? _Who_ had drugged them? _What_ was the drug used? _When_ was it administered? _Where_ was it administered?  
Sherlock couldn't form enough cognitive thoughts in this state to figure it out.   
Eventually, with incredible force and will power, he managed to rouse himself. When he did, the first thing he felt was cold lair of frost on the ground that was touching his exposed skin. _Frost? In July?_ He pushed the thought aside, thinking they must have gotten an unexpected cold blast.  
Next he felt his nose dripping and became aware that his fingers were stiff. He cautiously moved them until the numbness went away, rubbing them together to avoid frost bite. The strange odor and the man had gone, and so had the moon. The sun was now peeking elusively between the dark branches and the forest was humming with morning activity. Even in the day, the woods were eerie. Fog blanketed the ground in thick sheets and everywhere it was frighteningly still, as if every life form had crawled into some dark hole, unwilling to face the light of day.   
Sherlock slowly found it in him to sit up, and his first thought was to look for Watson. It didn't take him long, because John was lying face-down right beside him, shivering violently, fingers still outstretched for the glock on the ground.   
Sherlock cautiously took the gun and put the safety on, laying it aside, before he pushed Watson into an upright position against a tree and rubbed his shoulders quickly, trying to get some warmth into him. John hadn't been as well protected against the cold in his jacket as Sherlock had been in his coat, but Sherlock could see no signs of frostbite on him.   
Sherlock moved on to warming his hands, rubbing them between his until the friction returned them to their normal color.  
Gradually, John began to move on his own and blinked wearily.   
“Monster,” was the first thing out of his mouth.   
Sherlock shook his head.  
“He drugged us,” he said. Watson took a moment to process this, still groggy.   
“When would he have done that?” he muttered.   
“I don't know, but it's the only explanation.”   
John shifted so he was more upright, hugging himself.   
“Frost, in July,” he said quietly. Sherlock shrugged.   
“I thought it was odd as well. But not the oddest thing that's happened.”   
John nodded. They both felt normal, if not a bit cold and tired. Whatever Moriarty had given them had worn off.   
“We should probably go to the hospital,” John said. Sherlock shook his head.   
“Why? Your pulse is normal, your pupils are dilated, blood flow seems regular—“   
John scowled at him.   
“Done a full check up on me while I was sleeping?”   
“Well, I had to make sure it had worn off.”   
John stood and picked up the pistol, holstering it.   
“You okay to drive?” he asked Sherlock. Sherlock nodded. The question seemed too normal—they _should_ be talking about what happened to them last night, who Moriarty was and what he wanted with Sherlock and what to do with the tape.   
The tape.   
Sherlock reached into his pocket for it.   
It was gone. 

 


	51. The Second Note

Sherlock felt as though there were hundreds of telephones in his mind, and he could not find which was ringing.   
He ran in circles in the attic of his mind, picking up telephone after telephone, only to get the voicemail.   
_Trick_. _Trick_. _Trick_.   
Clever, terrible trick.   
The man called Moriarty had essentially confessed a dozen murders to him, let him believe he had proof, then snatched it away and disappeared.   
_Why_?   
  


 

“I didn't like that one bit,” John said gravely as they drove. The thrill had quickly gone sour, poisoned with cold fear. The booming voice of Moriarty reminded John of his father, and in whatever drug-induced delirium he'd been in, he'd dreamed of his dad again.  
Sherlock was driving with a look that suggested his mind was thousands of miles away, picking apart last night like the pieces of a clock.   
“I'm sorry,” Sherlock said eventually, a response so out of place and delayed that it puzzled John.   
“For what?”   
“You shouldn't have come, I knew it. Now whatever he's doing, he's going to drag you in too.”   
“If you're part of whatever this is, I want to be too.”   
“It's different now. You have Jamie to take care of.”   
That was true enough. He couldn't put himself in mortal danger—if something were to happen to him, Jamie would be put in the system and herded around until someone adopted him. The thought made John's stomach turn unpleasantly.   
Though the morning was cold, it was not especially grey, and a strip of sunlight on the tree line soon became a much welcome ray, thawing the strange frost.   
“I still don't understand, about the frost,” John said softly.   
“An east wind, Watson,” Sherlock said. “An east wind has come.”   
  
John Watson's life was full of east winds. If someone had told him a year ago that he would lose his brother, get him back, quit rugby, and have a boyfriend, he would've laughed in their face. But east winds tend to knock things over until west winds pick them back up.   
Jamie was still sleeping when they returned, and Mary was sitting on the sofa sipping tea.   
“Good morning,” she said drowsily. “You two look like hell. Hungover?”   
Sherlock chuckled and John just shook his head with a cynical smile.   
“I wish,” he said. “Thanks again, Mary.”   
“My pleasure. I'll see you two soon.”   
Mary tiptoed out with a sweater wrapped around her shoulders, not asking about what they'd gotten into.   
“Nap?” John suggested in exhaustion, shedding his jacket.   
“Nap,” Sherlock agreed simply.

 

They slept until the afternoon, though when they got up Jamie was already awake reading a book. John had freshened up a bit, so his brother didn't notice any of last nights struggle on him.   
“Got up all by yourself?” John yawned. “You could've come woken me.”   
Jamie shrugged.   
“You looked really tired. Sherlock, I learned about the honey bees, like you said!” Jamie mentioned brightly, closing the book he'd borrowed from the library on the very subject.   
“Is that so?” Sherlock said. “Ready for your quiz?”   
Jamie nodded eagerly.   
“Okay. Scientific name.”   
“ _Apis_ _mellifara_.”   
“Very good. Originated in?”  
“Africa, then spread to Europe and Asia, then North America.”   
“Additional fact.”   
“Honey bees are one of the few species categorized as eusocial, meaning they have a well structured system of social hierarchy.”   
“Excellent!” Sherlock took the change from his coat pocket and handed it to the little boy, who bounced off excitedly to put it in his room.  
“That's about ten words I didn't know he knew,” John said proudly. “Your little game's really got him learning quite a bit.”   
“He's smart, just needs things interesting to stimulate him,” Sherlock said. “A little reward doesn't hurt either.”   
He gave John a smirk.  
“I'm going to get home and see if I can figure anything out,” he said. “Think about it. Sort the facts and such, as they say.”   
“Okay,” John said. “Call me tonight.”   
They kissed, but little did they know, they were not the only ones watching.

 

Sherlock had an excellent method for Thinking About Things, and this involved sitting in a comfortable position in a quiet room and not leaving it til he had the Thing figured out.   
This worked most of the time, but it is not possible to figure out Every Thing without leaving one's room, and he feared that this may be one of those Things.   
He could of no motive Moriarty would have in targeting him that seemed reasonable, though he supposed any motive was _plausible_ , given the strange circumstances.   
Perhaps Moriarty wanted to kill him, and got some sort of pleasure out of taunting his victims. Maybe Sherlock had something he wanted, or maybe he had some kind of connection to Sherlock via a family member, some kind of unresolved problem.   
He sat ruminating about this for many hours. After a while, a knock on the door startled him out of his trance.   
“What?” he growled.   
“Post for you again, dear,” his mother said, opening the door. “Whose been writing you?”   
“No one,” Sherlock said, taking the letter with a pounding in his chest when he saw the envelope.  
His mother looked concerned, but left.   
Sherlock had another note from Moriarty.   
  
His hands trembled as he opened it. The photograph inside was barely developed, but he could see with a sick knot in his stomach that it was of him and John parting.   
The note read:

 

_twenty four hours_

_figure out who i killed_  
and how i did it  
john needs you

_i'll give you a hint_

 

Something fluttered from the folds of the letter.   
It was a picture of the woods.

 


	52. The Chase Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming up with these murders was a fun time so I hope you enjoy it

_John's in danger._  
The thought echoed in his head endlessly, for a moment he couldn't even breathe. His hands shook so badly he dropped the photograph.   
_John needs me.  
24 hours.   
Think, Sherlock, think.   
_ He sat down, trying to control his racing mind. He needed to clear his head and think of a plan.   
_24_ _hours_.  
24 hours to solve the murders and get John back.   
_24 hours._  
  
It was 5pm now, so he had until 7pm tomorrow.   
“Mum, I'm going out,” he said, grabbing his keys.   
“When will you be back?”   
“I don't know.”   
He didn't listen to his mothers concerns, just shut the door and fled.   
  
He had to think about this logically, clear the emotions from his mind to make way for the reasoning. First he had to go to the Watson house. If this wasn't a ruse, Jamie was still there.   
The Ford roared to life and he slammed on the gas.

 

Jamie was in his room when Sherlock arrived.   
The house looked normal, from what he perceived, and for a moment, he hoped this was all a joke.   
But John was nowhere in sight.   
“Jamie,” Sherlock said as calmly as he could. “Have you seen your brother?”   
Jamie shook his head.   
“He said he was going to get groceries.”   
_Moriarty must have threatened him. That bastard.  
_ “Okay. Okay, Jamie. I'm going to need you to come with me, is that okay?”   
The little boys eyebrows scrunched.   
“John said if I need anyone, call you.”   
“That's right. That's right. I need you to come with me so I can take you somewhere safer to wait for John.”   
Jamie's eyes filled up with fear.   
“Is something wrong?”   
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. _Think think think think._  
“I'm going to fix everything, okay? I can't talk about it right now, but I need you to stay at my house with Mrs Hudson until I've fixed it.”   
Jamie had met Mrs Hudson, and he quite liked her, so he agreed. Sherlock sighed in relief.   
“Okay, let's go.”   
  
They were silent in the car, though Jamie looked frightened. Sherlock could think of nothing comforting to say, instead he said;   
“For your new research, Jamie, I was thinking French. I could help you learn.”   
Jamie nodded, not looking at him.   
  
They arrived at 221b and Sherlock dropped him off, giving him a reassuring nod before speeding back onto the road.   
  


_Solve the murders in 24 hours._

Okay. Where did he start? Who had Moriarty killed?  
There was Chief Walton, Deputy Randolph, David Adler, and the six children.   
He start with the freshest.   
  
Chief Walton's trailer was still in it's usual spot.   
No one had bothered moving it, so there it remained, disturbingly quiet. It was locked, but Sherlock had know problem with that. He picked it quickly and shoved his way inside.   
The trailer was messy, but not desperately. There were all kinds of County PD documents lying about. Sherlock quickly started opening drawers, looking for answers.   
He had pill bottles about, no surprising. Most of them were only half-empty. His coffee mug was not, however, in the house, which led Sherlock to believe he must have had his coffee _outside_ that morning. The documents were mostly idle reports, but as Sherlock peered under the bed, he pulled out a box containing a set of yellowing documents and photographs.  
_It was the missing children's case.  
_ Sherlock's heart beat sped up excitedly. The Chief's notes were scrawled about, odd things, leads, dead ends.   
Evidently, the Chief didn't believe that those children had drowned by accident.   
_That's_ why Moriarty had killed him. He had never stopped examining the botched investigation.   
_Brilliant, brilliant._  
Sherlock felt a brief moment of unexpected fondness for the deceased Chief. He hadn't really given up after all.  
But it was no time to be sentimental. He had more murders to solve.   
  
7:36pm.   
The box of documents bounced in the Ford's trunk. Deputy Randolph's alleged suicide was next.   
There were two possibilities that presented his first problem:   
Had the Deputy willingly gone to the forest, or had someone lured him there?  
Deputy Randolph had lived alone, which was fantastically convenient for Sherlock, because his house was now vacant.   
It was on Garden Street, small and in a bit of disrepair. Sherlock climbed through a window that had recently been broken from the outside, likely by a rock or baseball.   
The inside smelt of mold and tobacco. The sofa had holes in it, and there was a television that looked as though it was one of the first.   
Sherlock swept the area like a hound. The Deputy's mail was all laid out on his table, only half of it cut open.   
Sherlock found the letter opener in a kitchen drawer and began the tedious work.   
He looked for anything handwritten or out of the ordinary. It seemed Randolph had few or no friends, this was because of his incredibly distasteful personality and debilitating addiction to alcohol.   
There was only one handwritten letter in the whole batch. 

_Dear Randolph,_  
It's your old friend James.  
Remember me?  
I need you to meet me in the woods tonight.   
G.B Barker.   
Yours, JM. 

 

Moriarty.   
Who was G.B Barker? Randolph and Moriarty were friends? Randolph, how was he connected to him? Did he know him personally, was he a colleague of some sort?  
Then it hit Sherlock like a ton of bricks.   
Randolph _worked_ for Moriarty.  
It was the only logical explanation—that was why he'd held back on all those cases, even _discouraged_ them from being solved. _That's_ why the Davie Adler case had gone cold so quickly. _That's_ why he was now dead.   
He was an associate of Moriarty, had possibly done some dirty work for him.   
_Of course, I don't kill them myself. I have a man for that._  
G. B Barker was either a person or a code.  
Sherlock shoved the note into his pocket and climbed back out the window.   
He needed to go the only place he could for the information he need; the library.   
  
  


_  
_

 


	53. The Drownings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But Nim, didn't Hamish die of shock????  
>  Yes, you'll get it soon.

John's whole body was clammy with cold sweat.   
He'd been sitting, bound, by the tree for hours now. His hands shook from his dropping blood sugar and mounting fear. His mouth was burned dry from dehydration.   
The situation seemed like a distant, ethereal occurrence in his mind, like a disturbing dream.   
But no, this was real. The rough tree bark scraping across his back was real. The fragrance of pine and earth was real.   
The woods were coming alive tonight, crickets sang happily, somewhere in the distance frogs were peeping. Shadows were just beginning to blanket the ground, and the stars were glinting as it grew darker.   
It really would've been such a beautiful night, if not for this.   
John hoped Sherlock had thought of Jamie and kept him somewhere safe. He hadn't wanted to alarm his little brother with the emergency, and hopefully Sherlock didn't make him panic either.   
John hadn't spoken to Moriarty since he'd been assured that if he did not comply to anything he said his little brother would be shot.   
But Moriarty hadn't put a gag on him (screaming would be pointless anyway, he supposed) and his anxiety was growing by the minute. Maybe if he talked he could figure some of this out.   
“Why do you want him here?” he asked shortly. Moriarty didn't move to look at him. John had yet to really see the man's face, another nuance of the man's character that disturbed him.   
“Don't be boring, Johnny,” Moriarty groaned. “You suppose I'm going to tell you some villainous plan like a James Bond film?”   
“I just wanna know. . . .why him?”   
“You want me to shut 'im up, boss?” The man with the American accent who Moriarty had called “Moran” was standing by with a blood thirst in his eyes that John didn't feel like quenching. Moriarty waved a hand idly.   
“No need. Be patient, Seb. You'll have your chance.”   
Moran grinned, eyeing John in a way that sent a shiver down his spine.

 

John face kept flashing in Sherlock's mind as he searched through article after article on the microfiche. No G.B Barker appeared in any articles.   
Then an older woman with shocking red hair pulled up in a frizzy ponytail approached him.   
“Need any help, dear?”   
Normally, Sherlock would've snapped the woman away. This kind of thing really quite annoyed him. But if there was any chance. . . .  
“Do you know of a G.B Barker?” he asked. The woman's eyebrows furrowed, and she brought a badly chipped nail to her lip.   
“Yes, I think I have. Follow me.”   
Sherlock stood and followed her to—a shelf?   
“Barker. Right here,” she said pulling out a paperback volume. Sherlock took it, doubtful it was the same man until he saw the title:

 _1969, Unraveling the Disappearances.  
_ G.B had written a book about the children Moriarty had drowned! Of course, _brilliant_! It made sense. Moriarty was killing anyone who had a connection or investigated the drownings. He was clearing the word “murder” from everyone's minds. It all made fantastic sense. He'd hired Randolph to kill Barker, but Randolph must have failed, thus Moriarty threatened and killed him.   
All Sherlock had to do now was figure out how Moriarty had killed those kids in '69 and he'd be able to get John. 

  
“Your friend fascinates me, Johnny,” Moriarty said. John clenched his fists. “He's something of a genius, I'm sure you've noticed. But sometimes he gets too. . .tangled in his own web.”   
“If you plan on hurting him. . . .”  
“You could do nothing. You're immobile, and I have eyes on little James as well. You will sit by, Johnny.”  
Moriarty turned to look at him full in the face for the first time, and John was taken aback by his violently green eyes. He looked like a snake. “You will sit back and act like the proper bait you are.”   
John clenched his fists tightly.

 

Donna May. Susie Wellington. Ricky Bessete. Michael Rens. Will Jarons. Debby Smith.   
Why would someone want to drown them?   
According to what Moriarty had said in the woods, he was only 9 at the time of his first killings, which meant he was just the same age as his victims.   
They'd disappeared one by one, one every day starting on Monday and ending Saturday. They were not found for several weeks, until their floating bodies were spotted by search parties. Susie had been first, her pale corpse spread delicately across the water, frozen as if she were just a doll. Ricky was next, then Donna. It took them longer to find Michael, because he was tangled up in plants. Debby followed. Will was last—his body was no longer whole, something had gotten...parts of it.   
The autopsies all showed the same thing—lungs full of water. But there was one thing out of the ordinary.   
While the other cadavers had either been entangled in nature some way or too dark to properly see, there were very obvious bruises around Susie's neck.   
He had choked her.   
The realization took Sherlock aback a bit, not because of the cruel nature of it, but because no one had realized at that point that this was a homicide.   
The bruises were mentioned in the autopsy report, but down played in the police report as play injuries.   
So that's how Moriarty had done it. He'd lured them there, choked them, drowned them, and let them float away. This random violence lasted an entire week. He'd gotten a taste for it—for the power and control he had when he was killing someone.   
Sherlock put down G.B Barker's book. He had everything he needed. He had to rescue John.   
  
“There's one more thing you don't know, Johnny, and I think I should tell you before your friend comes, just in case he hasn't figured it out.”   
John refused to meet the serpentine eyes.   
“What?”   
“I killed your father.”  


 


	54. The Last Murder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated in a few days, my friend is staying over

It was June and the air had just begun growing warmer so that at night a jacket would suffice rather than a wool coat.   
And the air, it smelled like spring and grass and earth and all the good things John had clung to since he was a little boy in a broken home with a rare moment of stillness.   
And it felt kind of the same, here beside Sherlock as they sat on the hill, because here he was escaping from all the bad things in his life, all the bad things in the world, sitting and breathing and just _existing_ outside of his own problems for a moment.   
And Sherlock had been quiet for a while, but not in a sad way, but then he spoke softly;   
“Do you think we'll grow old, Watson?”   
And the question had startled him for more reasons than one. It certainly wasn't a normal question, but nothing was ever normal with Sherlock. But it also startled him because he didn't know the answer, he'd never even thought about it.  
“Don't see why we wouldn't,” he'd answered eventually. Sherlock had looked a bit thoughtful at that.   
“I never imagined myself living to eighteen,” he'd said. “What am I going to do, if I get old? Nowhere to go, nowhere to run to. Only the birds to talk to.”   
“I'll try to stick around,” John had said. “So you don't get bored.”   
Sherlock had smiled just a bit.   
“You'd never grow boring.”

Then they'd kissed like they had another thousand years to live.

 

 

John thought about that night now, as he sat on the ground staring at Moriarty with his stomach curling itself into thousands of tiny knots. He no longer felt that old age was going to be a problem. He might just have to kill this man and go down in the process.   
Before he could even ask questions, he heard someone else approaching.   
He prayed it was Sherlock, that he had all the answers and had figured everything out. John didn't attend church, nor had he ever really been a praying person, but he'd started when Jamie disappeared. He hoped it was working.   
A pale face came into view and John sighed in relief. It was Sherlock, looking as though he was anxious and high and excited all at once. But then he saw John and their eyes met for a moment, and John watched his face fall.   
Moran bent low to John's level and John took in a shuddering breath when he felt Moran hot breath on his neck.   
“Don't even try to say anything or I'll kill you both.”   
  


 

“You made it. Early, as well,” Moriarty commented nonchalantly. Sherlock's eyes flitted to John, bound tightly, back against a tree. His stomach did several somersaults. John looked unharmed, and he intended to keep it that way.   
“Yes, I've solved your sick puzzle,” he said distastefully.   
“Are you sure you have all the results?” Moriarty asked. “After all, you have a few hours, if you'd like to review the information you've gathered for anymore clues.”  
Sherlock had spent two hours reviewing his information before coming here, but it had been so painstaking knowing that John was here that he couldn't wait another minute. Besides, he had the results he needed.   
“I'm sure. And if I'm correct, you'll let Watson go?”   
“Yes.”   
Sherlock took a deep breath.   
He explained, in all detail, how Moriarty committed each crime and why he did it. He explained how Moran had been hired as his hitman after Randolph had failed. He explained his bitterness towards Davie Adler from his early childhood and how he got his first taste of blood from beating up Davie's son. He explained how he then went and murdered six children for fun and got away with it, then figured out he could make this into an empire of lies. Moriarty could get away with this murder, cover it up by erasing the people who got close to the truth. Even old Farmer Ed, so sun baked his mind had gone numb, who had nothing more than a passive interest in what happened, something to talk about on his fishing trips and speculate about in his journal.   
All the way while he stood smiling at Sherlock as he explained the facts one by one.  
Sherlock took a deep breath when he finished, then his eyes caught John's. They were pained, and afraid.   
He got a sinking feeling.  
He'd missed something.   
Moriarty clapped in delight.   
“Very close, Mr Holmes,” he chuckled. “Very close. All information correct, just not complete. You've missed a crucial part of the picture.”   
“N-no,” Sherlock said. “That's impossible. You said I got everything right. I'm right. I win.”   
“No, Sherlock, you don't win. You've missed something—my last murder.”   
Sherlock felt a sudden compulsion to pinch himself. Surely this was just a terrible nightmare. He wasn't being subjected to solving a series of murders to save his boyfriend and best friend. He surely couldn't have failed.   
“You see, Mr Holmes,” Moriarty said, “You've forgotten all about Hamish Watson.”   
“Hamish Watson?” Sherlock was puzzled. “What—what does he have to do with this?”   
“Think, Sherlock. They tell me you're sooo good at it. Think about the year 1969. Hamish Watson has a one year old son. He's going to leave all his mistakes behind him. Then one night, he's drunk.”   
Sherlock's brain raced to get to it first. John was staring at the ground.   
“He saw something he wasn't supposed to,” he murmured. “Thought he'd dreamed it, imagined it, then—“   
“Then he read the paper the next morning,” Moriarty said. “And he was petrified. Too scared to talk, at first. It had always bothered me that he was alive, should he ever sober up, it would be awfully disappointing. So when he checked himself into a rehab center—“   
“What?” John choked.   
“Didn't you read the autopsy report?” Moriarty said. “Zero blood alchohal. That man was sober as an ass. He was going to get himself fixed up, and come clean. But I couldn't let that happen. So I had to take something.”   
It clicked in Sherlock's mind in one horrific spin.   
“Jamie,” he gasped. “You kidnapped Jamie—“   
“To get to Mr Watson, yes, do keep up. It was easy to get him here then. I didn't even have to use a gun.”  
“Died of fright,” Sherlock muttered. “Did you drug him, like you did us?” Moriarty cocked his head.   
“I didn't drug you, Mr Holmes,” he said. “Haven't you caught on to what the monster really is by now?”

  
  
  


 


	55. The Mushrooms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lads. Chapter is a bit shorter than normal because there s a flashback and we're nearing the end of the story.

Monster. Monster. Monster.   
John's wrists were starting to bleed from his tight bindings. He could hardly breathe, hardly process what Moriarty had said.   
_He'd checked himself in to rehab.  
_ He was trying to get better. Then he'd been killed.   
Sherlock looked lost, terrified. More terrified than John had ever seen him before. He had that scared look of, _wait, I failed?_ that was just heartbreaking. Except this time it had dire consequences.   
“If—if it wasn't drugs,” he muttered.   
“Think. Think,” Moriarty said. “What is it with people and not _thinking_? Think, Holmes. When did you become afraid of this forest?”   
  
Sherlock's mind blanked for several moments. He was pulling file after file from the corners of his memory, trying to figure out when he'd started being afraid.   
Then something emerged.   
  
  


_July 21_ _st,_ _1980_

  
_He was sitting in a patch of moss, one of his botany books in his lap. The forest around him was quiet, the only sounds soft cicada's humming and birds chirping distantly.  
He looked at the plant life with a magnifying glass too big for his hands—he'd been quite small before he hit that awkward growth spurt.   
He was just inspecting a patch of growth on a tree when a bee caught his eye.   
Eagerly, he got up to follow it, hoping it would lead him to a whole hive. It was a _ bombus _or bumblebee rather than the usual_ apis mellifera _that frequented the backyard.  
He followed it for some minutes, then suddenly it ducked behind a tree and out of his sight. He looked around the trunk, but it was gone.   
However, something else caught his attention.   
On the ground was a large brown fungi like none he'd ever seen before. He must have overlooked it on his walks, because when he looked more closely, he realized every few yards there was another mushroom.   
A bit annoyed with his lack of observation, he bent down to pick up the specimen.   
When he touched it, the pileus (cap) gave way, crumpling beneath his finger tips. He recoiled as a dark fume spilled from it, giving off a foul odor.   
The smell was so distasteful he decided not to collect it and moved on.   
But several minutes later, he was growing dizzy. Had he forgotten to drink water again? Usually Mycroft reminded him to.  
Perhaps he just needed to eat something.  
But as he progressed through the woods, the dizziness got worse until he was forced to sit down. Then came a pounding headache.   
Suddenly, in this strange, euphoric state, he heard disembodied voices calling him. He heard Screaming Susie begging for her mother. Frightened, he hugged his knees and squeezed his eyes shut.   
But the voices were getting louder. Screaming Susie was starting to drown. The air felt colder than it had before.   
He opened his eyes and screamed.   
  
_ It took Sherlock a moment to recover from the memory. How long had that been locked away in his mind?  
“Mushrooms,” he managed finally.   
Moriarty's eyes lit up.   
“Correct!” he clapped. “Excellent, though delayed. A rare type brought here from East China. Stepping on one releases a gas known to cause violent hallucinations. Inhaling too much can make you sick, eating one can kill you. Fascinating, isn't it?”  
Sherlock would've found that extremely fascinating in any other circumstances.   
“I don't understand what you want from me,” he said. “Why did you send me on this wild goose chase if you knew I'd be wrong? Even if I was right, why?”  
Moriarty shrugged.   
“Even psychopaths need outlets, Sherlock,” he said. “I wanted someone to know what I'd done. To see how _clever_ I was. I'm clever, don't you think?”   
Sherlock grit his teeth.   
“Genius,” he said. “But that doesn't make it right.”   
“Right and wrong are just constructs. I do what I need to. And I _need_ this.”   
Sherlock was starting to see how sick Moriarty actually was. His profile all made sense—a psychopath who fed into his violence since he was a child, until it grew so bad he had a constant need for it. He was an addict—maybe at one time he'd even wanted to stop, but he couldn't. There would always be that nagging voice in his head that still wanted blood like someone addicted to cigarettes still wanted nicotine.   
It would never stop, even if he did.   
“You just wanted an audience,” Sherlock said. “Someone to impress with your tricks.”   
“You could put it that way. But I also need something else fro you two lads.”   
Moran seemed to take that as some kind of cue and cut John loose. John stood, rubbing his bleeding wrists with a focus that told Sherlock he was trying intensely not to think.   
“What're you going to do with us?” John growled as Moran grabbed Sherlock's arms, holding them back.   
Sherlock didn't struggle yet. He was trying desperately to form some kind of escape plan. Then Moriarty pulled out a small, square box.   
“I have some mushrooms in here,” he said with a sickly sweet smile. “We're going to play a little game.”

 

 


	56. The Screams

Sherlock didn't remember being held back.   
He couldn't remember Moriarty opening the box or shoving the mushroom to his face, all he could do was taste the thick blackness of the fumes entering his lungs as he directly inhaled them.   
Within moments his vision was gone, his breathing heavy. He knew that he was usually breathing in the fumes unwillingly, getting just a whiff of them from the forest floor. Sucking them in like this. . .  
He thrashed to get away from Moriarty, but still he could see nothing. Then is whole body seized up painfully and felt himself begin to convulse.   
This had happened to him before, when he'd gone a bit too far, taken a bit too much, but it was nevertheless the same terrifying experience he remembered. His limbs locked to his sides, unable to breathe, just choking on his own air.   
It only lasted a few seconds, but it seemed like hours.   
Then he was on the forest floor, gulping in huge breaths, still shaking. He had to get control of himself. He had to get himself and John away from this place.   
But when he looked up, John was gone.   
John and Moriarty and Moran were all gone, and he seemed to be in a different part of the woods entirely.   
It was dark out, darker than it had been before, and everything was uneasily quiet. No summer cicadas or crickets. No wind blowing gently through the boughs.   
Just him and his own quiet breathing.   
He stood, brushing himself off.   
“Watson?” he cried out. “John? Moriarty? Is anyone here?”   
There was a sound behind him and he froze.   
For a moment he was completely stiff, as if he'd woken up with sleep paralysis. Then he turned slowly.  
The sound had been a giggle. Sherlock thought he saw a face disappear behind the tree in front of him.

“Hello?” he said tentatively. “Is someone there?”   
There was another giggle.   
He spun around, and this time she was standing there.   
It was a little girl, dressed in a blue dress with knee high white socks and ribbon in her hair. Her hair was short and blonde, curled at the bottom.   
She would've been normal if not for the skin.   
Her skin was a pallid, purple shade, stretched too tightly over her bones. Sherlock could see blacken veins pertruding from the discolored skin, no longer full of blood.   
She'd been dead for a while.   
But still here she was, standing in front of him as if perfectly fine.   
He found he wasn't very afraid of her. Even though she was dead, she was just that, wasn't she? Just a little girl. She couldn't hurt him. She wasn't even real.   
“Oh,” Sherlock said, and his voice came out rather small. Maybe if he talked to his delusion, he could cope with it. “Oh, hello. Who are you?”   
The girl opened her mouth, but all that came out was a flood of water as if she'd been sick.   
Sherlock started.   
The girl spilled out more water, not choking or heaving like one would when vomiting, just standing there and waiting as the waterfalls pooled from her mouth.   
Finally she was done. Sherlock sighed and relief and opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could, the girl let out the most blood curdling, harrowing shriek he had ever heard in his life.   
He jumped back in surprise as the sound resonated through him, filling him with a cold, gripping fear. He desperately plugged his ears and tried to scramble away, but suddenly his legs were too stiff to move.   
Screaming Susie continued shrieking and Sherlock tried closing his eyes tightly, but it seemed to make the sound louder.   
“LEAVE ME ALONE!” he cried, and his voice could barely be heard over the screams. “YOU AREN'T REAL. GO AWAY.”  
The little girl screamed louder and louder. Sherlock thought his eardrums might burst.   
Then there was blackness.   
  
John fought with the toxin.  
It took several minutes longer than it usually would have to put him under. But he finally surrendered as the fumes filled his lungs like clay, dragging him to the ground.   
  
When he woke up, he was by the lake.   
“Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing his head. Was he still under the influence of that mushroom? He felt a bit hazy, but everything seemed so. . .real.   
He touched a nearby rock, and it was tangible beneath his fingertips. Was he really here? Had Moriarty dumped him here for some reason?   
He'd said they were going to play a game. Was this part of it?   
He walked to the edge of the water. It rippled, bubbled. Something was under there. Maybe a fish? John peered down, but could see nothing in the murk.   
Then, to his horror, a head began to emerge, covered in the wet green slime of the algae.   
Hamish Watson grinned at him.   
“D-Dad,” John said, taking several steps back. This must be a trick. His dad wasn't really here, he was dead.   
“Hi John,” Hamish said, still with an unnerving smile as his body fully emerged. His clothes were sopping wet and dirty. And John could _smell_ the liquor on him, smell it so well he could swear his father was really in front of him.   
“Is this how you thought I would die, John?” Hamish said, lifting a bottle to his lips and taking a long gulp, eyes never breaking away from John's face. “You thought I would drown myself in so much whiskey my liver would give or I'd stumble somewhere I shouldn't be.”   
John stepped back. Although the man was undeniably Hamish Watson, he still didn't look quite. . .right.   
His smile was stretched just a bit too wide, his skin a bit too pale. It was very unsettling. John thought for a moment he might vomit, but somehow, he didn't.   
“You know who loved the water?” Hamish said. “Your mum.” He chuckled, and it made John shiver. “Before you were born, your mum and I would go swimming during the summer. Sometimes we'd even swim in this very lake, if it was warm enough. I can remember her packing a picnic, standing in the kitchen with her bathing suit on, not a care in the world. I remember she smiled and told me the water was gonna be warm today, record highs in the weather.”   
John recoiled, afraid. Hamish seemed to be getting taller, broader. _Once he finishes the story,_ John thought desperately. _Once he finishes the story it will be over._  
“She looked so beautiful, in the sun,” Hamish continued. It always made her blue eyes sparkle, just like yours. I was so happy when you got her eyes, John.”   
John's throat went dry. Hamish's face was falling. Slowly, his father began to frown.   
“I loved it so much, at first, that you had her eyes,” he said. “But—but then she died—“   
He was at least a foot taller than he had been before now, eyes hollow and shoulders broadened, dirty clothes dripping silently.   
He looked at John.   
“Then I couldn't fucking stand them.” 

 


	57. The Float

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is like the second to last/third to last chapter before the story ends and I start writing "The Greatest Love Story Never told" :( I really love this story. Maybe I'll do a sequel. But hey, we still have a couple chapters left!

Sherlock was struggling to breathe, he was grappling in the darkness.   
Every breath he took he felt his lungs fill with thickness, as if he was inhaling water. He was trying to live, trying to survive, but he could see and hear nothing, only choke and gag and struggle.   
Then, suddenly, he felt someone pulling on him. Someone was tugging him out of the dark, towards safety.   
He'd learn later that the man was a police sergeant named Maxwell Brooks, but the face he saw was John Watson's.   
  
Hours passed, maybe days. At times it felt like seconds. He drifted in and out. Sometimes he heard voices, or smelled latex or other clean scents wafting through the air.   
Sometimes he felt like he was choking again, sometimes he thought he was dying or he was already dead or he was dreaming. Sometimes he even dreamed he woke up in his bed and this had all been a nightmare.  
He didn't have very many conscious thoughts. They passed through his mind dandelions in the wind, spreading and scattering and regrowing.   
He would think, “ _I'm dead”_ or, _“John is dead”_ or, _“I'm just asleep.”_ There were thoughts that made no sense at all, like, _“Moriarty is actually a bear.”_ Sometimes he just heard music.   
The feeling returned to his body slowly, starting in his fingertips. They felt very heavy, like his bones were made of stone, but soon enough he could summon the strength to lift them.   
Gradually, the tingling spread through his arms and legs and he managed to lift his eyelids.   
  
The first thing he saw was the light above him, far too bright. He blinked a few more times and shift his eyes downward.   
He was covered with a blanket. He was in the hospital.   
No one else was in the room with him. Weakly, he looked for the button to ring for the nurse. He lifted his arm with tremendous difficulty and pushed the button.   
He tried not to close his eyes and fall back into unconsciousness before a stout woman in her mid thirty's, slightly pudgy and owning two short hair cats, arrived.   
“Oh, Mr Holmes, you're awake!” she said. “Can you speak?”  
“Yes,” Sherlock hissed, and his throat hurt a bit. How long had he been in here? The nurse held water to his lips and he drank, resenting the fact that he needed assistance.   
“The doctor will be in shortly, Mr Holmes,” the nurse said. “You were quite...gone, when we got you.”

“Is John okay?” Sherlock croaked. “John Watson? Did they catch Moriarty?”   
“John Watson is in another room, he's perfectly fine. He's been awake for a few days now, worried sick about you. So is your mother. The man who was with you is in police custody right now, so don't you worry. You'll be able to tell the police everything that happened when you are fit to do so. Ah, Doctor Adly.”   
A tall, dark skinned man wearing a white frock coat entered. The doctor.   
“Mr Holmes,” he said amiably. “Glad to see you awake. How are you feeling?”   
“Tired,” Sherlock said. “My throat hurts.”   
“Not surprising. It's been nearly three days, you've gone without talking. Appetite at all?”   
“A bit,” Sherlock admitted. “I have chills.”   
“Well, your mother tells me you smoke, so it's probably that. Anything else?” Sherlock shook his head.

“What happened to me?”   
“You were forced to eat a small section of a _Venenom Densissima,_ a rare type of poisonous mushroom. You're very lucky to be alive. It could've been much worse.”   
“Will there be any lasting effects?”   
“There shouldn't be. But if you start to notice anything unusual, you come straight here, understand?”  
Sherlock swallowed bitterly.   
“Yes.”   
“Good. I'll let your family know you're awake. Buzz for Amelia if you need anything.”   
Sherlock nodded, and Doctor Adly left.   
Several minutes later, he saw Mycroft and his mother walk quietly into the room. Covering her mouth so as not to squeal, Mrs Holmes ran over to hug him.   
“I swear you are never leaving the flat again,” she whispered. Sherlock smiled softly.   
“I'm alright, Mum,” he said, patting her back. Mycroft stood next to him, but didn't go in for an embrace.   
“I'm glad you're okay, Sherlock, though what you did was incredibly stupid.”   
“I had no choice.”   
“There is always a choice.”   
Sherlock didn't look at him for a moment. Then Mycroft lifted his head.   
“But you survived,” he said finally. “That's all that matters for now.”   
Sherlock nodded. He knew his brother as telling him he loved him, in his own way. It's how they communicated.   
“Where's Watson?” he asked tentatively. He knew John was awake, and little else. “And Jamie?”   
“Jamie is with Mrs Hudson,” his mother said. “John is in another room, I'm sure they'll let him come see you. Don't worry, he's a bit banged up, but he's a tough one.” She smiled.   
Sure enough, moments later, John walked through the door.   
He looked a bit banged up, there was a bruise under his eye and his limp was back just slightly. But other than that he seemed his regular self. He smiled when he saw Sherlock, and warmth spread through him.   
“Hey,” John said softly. “I was worried about you. How're you feeling?”   
“Like hell, to be honest,” Sherlock said. “Yourself?”   
John shrugged.   
“Not too bad. The doctor told me he fed you some of the mushroom. He didn't do that to me, I guess that's why it was worse for you.”   
Sherlock nodded as John anxiously took his hand, as if Sherlock was too delicate to touch. His mother and Mycroft took that as their cue to leave.   
“We'll be back soon, love,” Mrs Holmes said, and they ducked out.   
John smiled uncertainly.   
“Your Mum called the police when Jamie said there was an emergency. They just kinda guessed we'd be in the woods. They caught Moriarty, Moran too. Their in the county jail right now.”   
“Have they been charged?”   
“Charged with attempted murder and poison used with intent to injure. I didn't even know that last one was a thing.”   
Sherlock smirked. Then he chuckled a bit.   
John's eyebrows furrowed.   
“What's so funny? It's an obscure law.”   
“Not that,” he said. “It's just, I've caught him.”   
John looked really puzzled.   
“Who? Moriarty.”   
Sherlock nodded, suppressing more joyful laughter.   
“My jacket is hanging right there,” he said. “Go check the pocket.”   
Looking amused and mildly confused, John walked over to the jacket and reached in the pocket. His eyes widened.   
“Sherlock,” he gasped. “Did you—?”   
Inside was a tape recorder.   


 


	58. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it, the last chapter.   
>  Thank you for reading this far. Thank you for subscribing, leaving kudos, and commenting. Honestly. you have no idea how much just comments helps me write. It gives me inspiration, ideas, and just fuel to keep going :) I love you guys and it's been really fun writing this fic, I hope you guys will follow me and continue to read my new works. I have a Victorian fic I'm writing right now, and I'm thinking of maybe even doing a 1920s one--you tell me what you wanted next :)   
>  Thanks again,   
>  Love Nim

Summer went as slowly and languidly as it had come, and soon enough autumn was upon them again. It crept up with it's crisp air and colorful trees, and John was sad to see it arrive.   
He could hardly believe it had only been a year since Jamie had disappeared, since he'd met Sherlock. He felt as though it had been a decade.   
That summer, Moriarty had gone to trial for several counts of first degree murder, one count kidnapping, and two counts of attempted murder.  
He was found guilty on all charges and sentenced to life imprisonment without possibility of parole. His partner, Moran, got life with possibility of parole with good behavior. They were shipped off to the same high security facility, and eerily, neither seemed to particularly mind.   
Sherlock and John were both called as witnesses and, this time, imbued with the passion of justice he felt, Sherlock was able to stand and testify without panicking.   
Both of them felt tremendously relieved to see the two men shipped away.   
But with the coming autumn, John knew he wouldn't be able to see Sherlock every day as he usually did. Sherlock was now at uni, majoring in crime science, and working part time besides. John himself now worked full time to support him and Jamie. Often coming home after a long, menial day felt a bit lonely, especially when Jamie started school again.   
The house felt haunted to John, maybe because of what had happened inside. Every time he passed under the quilt nailed above the short hallway to his room he shuddered a bit. It wasn't the only thing that had happened here that made him cringe.   
Jamie divulged more about his kidnapping gradually, horrific accounts that left John utterly shaken every time a new one emerged. Sometimes he would sit, listening with compassion, hardly able to contain himself before Jamie was gone and he could finally cry. Guilt still gnawed at him.   
But Jamie was getting better, even though he would always be left with a scar. He had regained some of his previous weight, and his nightmares were getting scarcer.   
  
The first time since the incident that July night that John was truly able to _breathe_ was the Saturday he spent with Sherlock the first week he was at uni, taking John around the campus.   
“That's where my calculus professor is, he's an imbecile, though. Besides, I already know advanced calculus. Another waste of time here. Ooh, let me show you the lab!”   
So he was dragged around by Sherlock, listening to every passionate word he spoke about science or crime or just how stupid the other students were, and he felt for the first time that this could really work. That his life was not just getting by, just being alive and keeping Jamie alive.   
No, this—this was living. Loving someone was living.   
  
Sherlock could've gone to Cambridge or Oxford if he'd wanted to, but he'd decided staying close to home was best, besides, Ivy League would only be a more expensive version of the same essential education, never mind being renowned.   
Besides, he was planning something rather. . . .big.   
He tortured himself endlessly about it, consulted his mother and Irene and Mrs Hudson numerous times, and finally decided he would go through with it.   
  
Sherlock had said they were going to lunch.   
So when the Ford took a sharp turn and John saw the “Welcome to Black County” sign disappearing rapidly behind them, he suddenly got a bit anxious.   
“Hey, where are we going?” he said.   
“Somewhere out of town.”   
“This better not be one of your spontaneous escapades.”   
“Are we leaving town?” piped in Jamie from the back seat.   
“You'll see in a moment,” Sherlock said mysteriously.   
They drove for only another ten minutes or so before they pulled up on a curb beside a flat.  
It was several stories, brick, with an elegant black door and a brass knocker.   
“Sherlock, where are we?” John said tentatively.   
“It's an adventure!” Jamie said excitedly. Sherlock smiled.   
“Close your eyes, Watson, I want it to be a surprise.”   
Still skeptical, John did as he was told and allowed Sherlock to take him by the arm, leading him through a door and up a staircase, then through another door, Jamie's excited feet pattering beside them.

Wherever they were, John could faintly smell cedar and bergamot.   
“Open up,” Sherlock commanded.   
John did.   
They were standing inside the flat now, overlooking a small town.   
It was small, but roomy. They were in the parlor, which was empty. All of it was empty—John could see the kitchen from here, and a hallway leading to two bedrooms. There were two big windows, letting the light spill in and revealing swirling dust.   
“Sherlock, what—what is this?” John asked.  
Sherlock smiled nervously.   
“It's ours, if—that is—if—you want to—move in with me? You and Jamie, of course.”   
Jamie grinned from ear to ear.   
John was stunned, unable to speak for several moments. Sherlock had. . .he wanted. . .  
“You bought a flat for us?” he said softly.   
Sherlock's face fell.   
“Oh—well, have I done something strange? Irene said it wouldn't be strange, and I thought—“   
John interrupted him with a kiss, which Jamie promptly looked away from, crinkling his nose.   
“No, you haven't done anything wrong,” John said as he pulled away. “And don't worry about being strange, I like you like that.”   
Sherlock smiled nervously.   
“So—will you—?”   
“Yes, of course we'll move in.”  
Sherlock grinned and John hugged him, Jamie following suit and throwing his arms around their waists.   
“It's only a few minutes walk from the campus, ten minutes from Black County, so—I thought I could walk to my classes and you could take the car—and between us we should be able to afford it nicely, and get some furniture, my uncle might have some he doesn't want—“   
“It's perfect. Perfect,” John said.   
It was. This moment, this place. It was perfect. It was where they were meant to be, he could just feel it.   
And he knew, from then on, it was going to be the three of them. It was going to be John Watson and Jamie and Sherlock Holmes and the streetlamps and the stars, just as it should be.   
John took his little brother's hand, and followed Sherlock to tour the rest of a flat with a smile.

 


End file.
